


Courting Mycroft

by OTPmorelike2000truepairings



Series: To Court an Omega [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Omega Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 64,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OTPmorelike2000truepairings/pseuds/OTPmorelike2000truepairings
Summary: Set immediately after 'Courting Sherlock', will not make sense unless you read that one first. Greg and Mycroft meet and quickly get bonded, leaving Mycroft panicking. Now it's a matter of him figuring out how to balance his feelings with his bonded mate, while dealing with the whirlwind that is his brother and John.





	1. The Happiest day of my Life

Greg Lestrade was really excited as he jogged up the stairs to 221B. Earlier that morning Sherlock had texted him to say that the twins were born and to come over and see them. Greg had come as soon as he'd had a shower to wash off the scent blockers he had to take for his job. Some people were a bit scared of the fact that he was an Alpha, especially in those admittedly rare instances that an Omega had been abused by their Alpha. But everyone knew it was important for babies to know your natural smell, so any blockers had to be washed off before you could see a new baby.

There were some familiar scents even on the stairs: John's gunpowder-tea-cotton scent, Sherlock's vanilla-strawberries-morgue antiseptic scent, and even faint whiffs of Mrs. Hudson's cookies and tea scent. Someone else was here too, someone who's scent wasn't immediately familiar to Lestrade. Perhaps a friend of John's?

He reaches the top of the stairs and knocks on the door of the flat. John answers, grinning at Greg with a tiny bundle in his arms. Lestrade's whole attention is claimed in an instant by that tiny bundle. The baby inside opens blue-green eyes and grunts, trying to focus its eyes enough to see him. A tiny hand protrudes from the blankets and Lestrade follows his instincts and offers his finger to the baby. The baby grabs his finger and he finds himself amazed by the strength in this tiny baby. 

"She's perfect, isn't she?" John questions, staring at the baby with love in his eyes.

"Yeah, she is," Lestrade agrees breathlessly. "What's her name?"

"Zyana Avery Holmes," John replies. "Zyana means 'blessing from Heaven' and Avery means 'Counsellor'. Sherlock and I thought the name fit."

"You're beautiful, little girl," Lestrade coos at her. 

"She's the perfect mixture of us both. She has my hair color but Sherlock's curls and Sherlock's eyes, and if you want my opinion she looks like an angel."

"You've got your daddy wrapped around your finger already, little girl," Lestrade tells her. The baby coos in response at him.

"Mycroft's holding our son," John says, and Lestrade looks up from the baby finally to see the people in the room besides John and Zyana. Sherlock is sitting there, looking more blissful than Lestrade has ever seen Sherlock look outside of a crime scene. A man is seated next to Sherlock, and he has all of Lestrade's attention. The stranger has brilliant ginger hair and little freckles across his face. So this is the mysterious Big Brother, Mycroft. He inhales and realizes the man has an absolutely delicious Omega scent.

"You're an Omega?!" Lestrade blurts out, and he hears Sherlock snort in the background. 

"Well aware, thank you," Mycroft replies. His voice is that of Big Brother, which surprises Lestrade. He kind of assumed that whenever he spoke with someone on the phone that he was speaking to a secretary of Mycroft's, one besides Anthea. Apparently not.

Lestrade sits down onto one of the dining room chairs, which is pulled over into the living room. In a moment he has Zyana in his arms for the first time. Lestrade smiles down at her, babbling nonsense. The baby coos in response, making Lestrade feel almost like they are conversing.

He hears someone taking deep breaths near him and looks up to realize that Big Brother- no, Mycroft, call him by his name- is on the verge of a panic attack. "John, take the baby!" Mycroft cries, practically throwing the tiny bundle at John. Mycroft waits to ensure John has a secure hold on his son and then he is gone, vanishing up the stairs.

In a few minutes Mycroft is back downstairs again. "Sorry. They're just too small, I'm scared I'll hurt them. Besides, I'm not very good with them."

"Babies?" Sherlock drawls.

Mycroft smirks. "People." He settles down into the other chair again, though he doesn't move to take the baby back. 

"Greg, did you want to hold our son?"

"Sure!" John does some maneuvering and Lestrade finds himself looking down at his godson for the first time. "What's this little boy's name?"

"Michael Gabriel Holmes," Sherlock says. "John picked it out. Michael means 'who is like God?' and Gabriel means 'a hero of God.'"

Mycroft snorts. "Named after archangels, the highest-ranking angels of God, if the stories are to be believed. Rather presumptuous of you both, but certainly fits with the arrogance of Holmes'."

"Yeah, I suppose," John says, looking thoughtful. "Sherlock and I just thought it would be a nice way to honor you both without possibly causing danger to the children."

"What do you mean?" Greg asks.

"Michael is a play off the nickname Mycroft hates, Myc. And Gabriel is for you, Greg, because Sherlock can never remember your name anyway."

Mycroft is silent for a long moment, and when he speaks again he says gruffly, "I'm honored."

"Me too," Greg agrees, cradling his godson and namesake closer and rocking him. The baby soon falls asleep in Greg's arms.

"John, can you help me to the bathroom?"

"Of course, darling." Sherlock makes a gagging sound, but the look he gives John as John helps him up is full of love. The door closes behind them and just like that Greg finds himself alone with Mycroft for the first time.

He continues holding the baby and pays no heed to the fact that Mycroft is sitting there, knowing his attention will do nothing more than frighten the man. There is probably a reason he avoided Greg for so long, after all. He hears the creaking of a chair and knows Mycroft has stood up, and can feel the man at his back. He just stands there, not saying anything, until Greg speaks. "You can hold him again if you want. I don't mind."

"Thank you, but no." 

They sit in silence for a bit longer, Greg enjoying the baby in his arms and the Omega at his back. Sherlock returns from the bathroom and plucks Zyana out of the crib. He rocks her, smiling at his brother and Greg standing so close together. Mycroft moves so he's gazing down at his niece from behind Sherlock's chair. He smiles at the baby and the effect is dazzling, it lights up his entire face. Greg stifles a groan. No one told him that Big Brother was an Omega, and certainly no one mentioned that he was exactly Greg's type, because Greg is certain he would have remembered that conversation!

The room's stillness is broken by an almost cloying scent of an Omega going into heat. From his position standing behind Sherlock, Mycroft can feel the first wave of slick travel down his legs. "S**t," he exclaims softly.

John is the first one to leap into action. He crosses over to Mycroft, taking the hands of the clearly-panicking man. "What can we do? Do you need us to call someone?"

"Anthea, please," Mycroft answers, tone sounding a bit pained. John pulls out his phone and begins dialing in response. "I didn't expect this," Mycroft tells Sherlock as John begins talking to someone on the phone in a low tone. "I'm not due to have a heat for a while yet, possibly another week to week and a half."

"It's okay, Mycroft, John will help you. No need to be upset."

"Normally I'm on suppressants. This one is going to be h**l." 

Greg's nose is sniffing the air, and his inner wolf is begging for a chance to take the Omega home. He doesn't move, however, and not just for fear of hurting the baby in his arms. He knows that Mycroft has probably been abused in the same way Sherlock was, and he remembers how hard it was for Sherlock to accept John in the beginning, even threatening to leap off the rooftop to get away when they were first bonded. He doesn't want Mycroft to feel the same sense of fear, and so he doesn't move a muscle. Nothing can stop his nose from twitching, so he smells the torturous scent of this Omega going into heat, but nothing else is done, he doesn't acknowledge it in any way. He can feel Mycroft's gaze locked on him now, and knows the man is waiting for him to respond in some way to the heat overtaking him. Greg won't give him a reason to be afraid.

"She's coming, Mycroft," John reports, hanging up the phone. 

"Thank you," Mycroft replies. A second later he is bent over, grunting with pain as tremors wrack his body. He cries out, gasping. 

"Mycroft!" Anthea is by his side, and Greg wonders how she got here quite so fast. No matter, Mycroft clearly needs her help. 

"Help me!" he pleads.

She loops her arm around his body and tries to get his legs to cooperate enough to get them to the car. Once in the car they should be relatively safe, safer than they are here, at least. Then it's a simple matter of getting home and getting Mycroft into the house. It should be simple, but Mycroft's legs refuse to follow his directions, and they buckle continuously. "Do something!" Mycroft begs.

Greg can't sit by and watch this anymore. It seems inherently wrong to him, to watch a man that Sherlock deems the British Government struggle to stand on his own. "I'll help," he volunteers, handing Michael off to John. Before Mycroft can argue with him he swoops the man into his arms and carries him down the stairs of 221B. A fresh wave of slick cascades down Mycroft's body, and Greg bites his lip so hard it bleeds in response. He can refrain from claiming this man, he wouldn't have become a police officer if he couldn't handle himself around an Omega in heat.

He manages to get Mycroft strapped into the car, the man's head lolling to the side, though he tries to help Greg. His fingers do little more than twitch over the belt as Greg straps him in, and Greg has a moment of understanding; Mycroft was right, his heat is coming on faster than Greg has ever seen it come on for anyone. This one will be absolute h**l, and Greg doesn't envy him this one bit. Just as Greg goes to shut the door, the heat must loose it's hold on Mycroft just the slightest bit, because he grabs Greg's hand. The strength in that grip surprises him. "Stay," Mycroft rasps.

"No," the word falls out of Greg's mouth before his Alpha side can answer, which is good. There's no way Mycroft wants this. "That's just your heat talking. You have been avoiding me for the past how many years, you don't actually want this. You don't want me."

"Get in the car," Mycroft orders. His head falls to the side as more Omega pheromones are released into the air, and Greg spares a brief moment to the fantasy of sinking his teeth into that beautiful, long neck. 

He clears his throat. "No." Before Mycroft can argue again, or worse, convince Greg to do it, he whirls and jogs back up the steps to 221B. It's not much better, the scent of Omega in heat still in the air, so without acknowledging either John or Sherlock he pulls open a window and hangs out it, breathing in the fresh air in a desperate attempt to clear his senses.

Sherlock is watching him with a sharp gaze when he pulls his head back in the window. "What happened?"

"He propositioned me."

"And you turned him down? Really, Gabriel, what is wrong with you?"

"My name is Greg!"

"Yes and I'm Sherlock. Boring, dull, who cares. Are you really so blind? Perfect Matches run in families, did you know that?"

"They're so rare I don't know much about them besides the fact that you and John are Perfect Matches."

Sherlock sighs. "You and Mycroft are Perfect Matches. If you don't bond with him now, he'll go into the hospital and he won't wake up until you bond with him. Is that what you want?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Greg, mate, they say with Perfect Matches that it's a lot harder to resist bonding them during a heat," John cuts in. "I had that with Sherlock, but I did resist, and Mycroft had to pull me away from Afghanistan to heal his brother. Was it a lot harder for you to resist Mycroft than any other Omega in heat you've ever encountered?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"This is why Mycroft has been avoiding you for so long," Sherlock steamrolls on. "He knew that you two were probably Perfect Matches and so he decided to stay away from you. Whatever is going on in his head right now, he's clearly decided that you are meant to be with him."

Greg doesn't have a response for that. His phone begins to ring, and he picks it up. "Hello?"

"Hello Detective Inspector. Mr. Holmes is requesting your presence in his home promptly. We are sending a car around to Baker Street for you, though not the one that he was in."

"Oh. Thank you."

Greg hangs up, and looks to Sherlock and John. "That was Anthea. Mycroft is sending a car for me."

"Then go!" John urges. "Really Greg, what's the worst that can happen?"

Greg shrugs. "I guess we'll find out," he replies with an impish grin. "Wish me luck!" He jogs down the stairs, waiting out front for the car, and when it pulls up he gets in.

"We did do the right thing to push Greg into this, didn't we?" John clarifies as soon as Greg is secured in the car. He turns from the window, looking to his mate for reassurance.

"Absolutely. Mycroft wouldn't have asked for him if he wasn't serious, and he requested him several times. They'll be fine together."

In Sherlock's arms, Zyana begins to cry. "Hush, little girl," Sherlock whispers soothingly. "No need to cry. This is the happiest day of my life. My children are in my arms and my mate is here with me, and my brother is getting bonded." As if listening to her Daddy, Zyana falls quiet.


	2. Heat's End

Mycroft woke up about a week later finally able to make sense of the world again. He stretched out his deliciously sore muscles, relishing in the slight pain. Whoever he had been with had obviously been...good, at the risk of being crass. Mycroft had a faint memory of silver hair, and he had an idea that he might have been with Sherlock's Detective Inspector Lestrade. While this wasn't ideal by any sense of the word, it wasn't too terrible. 

"Morning, Mycroft." The voice coming from the other side of the bed makes Mycroft freeze. 'What is Gregory STILL doing here? Everyone else left by now!'

"You okay, Mycroft?" Gregory asks.

"Fine. I think...I need to go to the bathroom."

"Oh-kay." Gregory is obviously confused, but Mycroft really couldn't care. Gregory still being in his bed come morning, come the end of heat, has truly thrown him off-kilter. He escapes to the bathroom, closing the door solidly between him and the Alpha in his bed.

Mycroft turns to examine himself in the mirror. This often helps him work on schooling his expressions when he is with others, so he has hopes that it will work now. After all, an Alpha in his bed is no big deal. Plenty of people have it happen all the time. So there's no reason to panic over it. 

But this, the mark on his neck, this is something to panic about! Where did this come from? When on Earth did he ever lose control during his heats and ask someone to bite him? Never! Never, never, not once in his life had he ever lost control like this, and now he might as well as sign his life away to Gregory's whims! 

A knock on the door pulls him out of the panic attack he can feel himself slipping into. "Hey, Mycroft, are you okay?"

"Perfectly fine, Gregory, thank you for asking," Mycroft replies, with the manners he was raised with, the manners that were sometimes beat into him.

"Really? Because, not that I want to call you a liar, but I can feel the emotions coming from the bond, you know, and you don't seem very 'perfectly fine.'"

'WHAT? I BIT HIM BACK? WHY DON'T I JUST PROPOSE MARRIAGE NEXT? Or is that Gregory's role since he's the Alpha? Who cares, I'm not getting married, and I'm never having children!'

"But I mean, if you're sure, I can go downstairs and make breakfast awhile."

"That would be lovely," Mycroft replies, "thank you, Gregory."

He hears Gregory's footsteps thump against the stairs as he moves downstairs, and then he slumps against the door. After a second he delivers a mental slap to himself. "Alright, Mycroft, do something!" he tells himself. The first thing that comes to mind is ridiculous and so out of his comfort zone that he decides instantly that that is the way he will escape. His blankets are nice, high-quality, and sturdy. Sturdy enough to let him out his bedroom window. He can call Anthea and have her pick him up. 

Mind made up, he calls Anthea and puts his plan into motion. The woman is paid way too much to question him on things like why she is picking him up on the other side of the house. From there, it is a somewhat simple matter to dress himself in his suit and escape out his window.

"Mycroft, whatever are you doing?" Anthea asks as she spots him dangling from the comforter, hanging about a foot from the ground.

Mycroft grimaces. "Shut up and help me, and I promise there is tickets to...whatever concert you wish in it for you if you never bring this up again."

"I want to see the TransSiberian Orchestra."

"Done."

"In America."

"Done. Plane tickets included. Now get me down!"

She reaches up and tugs on the blanket, freeing Mycroft and dropping him to the ground. 

"Can I ask what you're doing hanging out your window with your foot wrapped in your comforter?"

"I just wanted a change of exit strategy."

"Sure," Anthea says skeptically. "So if I walk through your front door right now..."

"You will find nothing," Mycroft insists. "Now, we should go before he sees us."

"He?" Anthea repeats.

"No, I didn't say that. Get in the car. Now."

"I'll let it slide just this once," Anthea says, "but don't think you've gotten out of this conversation."

They climb into the car, and Mycroft lets out a sigh of relief, thinking that he is finally in the clear. His head falls back against the car rest in relief and Anthea screeches, "Mycroft!"

Mycroft jumps up, afraid for his life. The last time Anthea's voice hit that decibel his life was in imminent danger, and he's not keen to repeat the experience. Looking around for a moment to ascertain there are no snipers putting a target on his body, he demands, "What?"

"You got bonded and you didn't tell me!"

"No!" Mycroft denies.

"Then what is that bond bite on your neck?"

Mycroft raps on the divider between his driver and himself. "Quick, drop me at the nearest convenience store!"

"Sir?"

"Did I stutter? Drop me at the nearest convenience store." He puts the divider up, then says, "What kind of makeup will cover this?"

"Mycroft, honey, what are you doing? You can't go out and cover up your bond bite with makeup! Why aren't you at home, with your mate? Who is your mate?"

"Gregory Lestrade." 

Anthea squeals. "Mycroft! That's wonderful!"

"No, it's not! I didn't want to get bonded!" Mycroft practically shrieks.

"So why are you here when he's obviously still at your house?"

"I'm avoiding him," Mycroft admits. "Now let me be. I'm trying to slip into my Ice Man persona and you're making it difficult."

"Mycroft!"

"I'm not going to talk about it any more. Leave me be, Anthea."

Anthea falls silent, though Mycroft can feel her questioning gaze on him. He steadfastly ignores her the entire time to the convenience store, as he dabs the makeup on his bite, and continues to ignore her at the office too. He can't explain his feelings to himself right now, much less to someone else. It's easier to ignore everything that happened in the past twenty-four hours than to deal with it, so he ignores it.


	3. Forcing the Issue

Greg was pretty sure that Mycroft thought he was stupid. The man had been avoiding him for a while. Greg had been waiting up for the past week, parked right in front of the front door. However Mycroft had come home, it hadn't been through the front door. He was definitely coming home though, because he kept leaving dirty dishes in the sink. So then, the obvious conclusion was that he was going out of his way to avoid Greg.

Greg still wasn't sure if he was supposed to stay at Mycroft's house or not, but no one had told him to leave, so he just stayed. But this was getting ridiculous. It wasn't like he needed to know Mycroft's every move, but he at least needed to understand where he stood. Was he supposed to stay here or go back to his flat? Did Mycroft realize that they were bonded, or was he emotionally stunted and trying to pretend that this had never happened? Did he want to have a relationship? Greg would probably know the answers to all of these questions and more if Mycroft would just walk through the freaking door. He knew Sherlock was stubborn, but he expected better from the diplomatic big brother.

Very frustrated, Greg makes a decision to ask for help. 'Hey, I need your brother's work address. -GL'

'Come over. -SH'

Sherlock glances up at his mate. "Mycroft is being stupid, and Greg needs to discuss feelings. I invited him over. Good luck."

"What will you be doing?" John demands.

"Taking care of our babies, John." As if on cue, Michael begins shrieking, followed up by Zyana shrilling in tandem. He smirks. "Gotta go. Babies are hungry."

He vanishes into the nursery just as a tentative knock is heard on the door. "Hey Greg, what's up?" John greets.

"I'm having some issues with Mycroft." 

"Okay, well sit down. Tell me what's going on?" he questions, slipping into friendly doctor mode.

"So Mycroft hasn't talked to me for the past week. Like, he takes the phrase 'freezing someone out' to a whole new level. We're living in the same house- kind of- I mean, he's never actually asked me to move it, but I also never left and he hasn't kicked me out. But like, he won't even see me. I've been waiting up every night in front of the door, and he sneaks in some other way, and eats breakfast in the morning, and sneaks back out."

"Greg, I'm so sorry. Can we help at all?"

"I don't know," Greg says, sighing in frustration. He rakes his hand through his hair, ruffling it. "I was thinking that maybe I needed to go force the issue, you know? But I don't want to scare him away. Is that too forward?"

"No, Greg. It's been a week. I think you're okay. You deserve to at least know where you stand."

Sherlock exits the nursery, rocking Zyana in her arms. "Michael's already asleep, but Zyana is being a bit more difficult to put down," he reports to John. "She doesn't like to sleep, just like her daddy," he coos at the baby. Then he turns to John again. "Did the two of you figure anything out?"

"I told him that he should force the issue a little bit," John says. "Try to find out where he stands, at least."

"Oh, that will make Mycroft so angry!" Sherlock exclaims, collapsing back into his chair. Zyana begins screaming in earnest, so Sherlock spares a moment to shush her, cuddling her close and soothing her. "Daddy's sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs. 

When the baby falls quiet again Greg asks, "So you don't think I should confront him, Sherlock?"

"Oh no, you definitely should," Sherlock says. "Nothing will make Mycroft respect you in the way that you need, other than to confront him. So go for it. In fact, because I'm feeling particularly kind, I will give you his address." He stands up again, bouncing the baby gently as he does so. He grabs a sheet of paper and scrawls an address, passing it off to Greg. "Here."

"Thank you, I really appreciate this," Greg tells them as he moves toward the door.

"Don't mention it again. Seriously. Never," Sherlock orders. Greg doesn't hear him, he's already gone.

He gets to Mycroft's office without incident, but is waylaid by Anthea the second he steps through the door.

"Hey, I need to talk to Mycroft," Greg offers as explanation for why he's there.

"Sorry Greg, he's at a meeting right now."

"I'll wait. But will you tell him I'm here?" Greg asks.

Anthea sets off down the hallway, and Greg makes a quick decision. He trots off down the hallway behind her.  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft is getting very frustrated with this meeting. He's sick of the goldfish and their stupidity, and the smart people like him needing to have these meetings to figure out lies or half-truths to console them with.

Anthea peers in a moment, giving Mycroft a look. She crosses over to him, bending down so she's near his ear. "Greg's outside."

"Outside where?" It's probably a stupid question, but he genuinely isn't sure what she's aiming for with telling him this.

"Outside in the waiting room!" she hisses.

"Get rid of him!" he hisses back.

A throat clears, and Mycroft and Anthea both freeze. Mycroft tips to the side, staring up into the eyes of his mate. 

"Gregory, what are you doing?" Mycroft questions.

"I wanted to force the issue a bit," Gregory explains, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "Like, you haven't been coming home, and I'm not really sure where we stand, and um-"

Mycroft beckons him closer, then says, "Gregory, I have something very important to tell you. You are currently interrupting a meeting with the Queen of England and the Prime Minister."

Gregory looks up in horror. "I'll wait outside," he says to them all, waving his hand. "Wait. Mycroft, don't you dare consider ducking out the other door."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Mycroft says, pasting a polite false smile on his face.

"I'll make sure he goes where he's supposed to afterward," the Queen tells Gregory, which makes him laugh. His smile does very strange things to Mycroft's insides, making his stomach twist like he's about to vomit.

"Thanks," Gregory answers. They all listen in silence as Gregory goes down the hall, whistling cheerily.

"I like that one," the Queen remarks.

Mycroft slumps in his seat for a moment and rubs his face, thankful that Gregory has only interrupted a meeting between the Queen, Prime Minister, and him. If it had been someone else, his career might be in jeopardy.

The meeting resumes, and Mycroft manages to voice some valuable input despite his mind being mostly somewhere else. Mainly, down the hall with Gregory and his brilliant silver hair and his beautiful tan skin. He shakes his head to clear that thought and realizes that the meeting is over. He gives the requisite handshakes and smiles, briefly lends thought to the idea of ducking out the side door, but is promptly stopped by the Queen's hand on his elbow, steering him toward the entrance where Gregory is waiting.

"Here, I believe this is yours," the Queen tells Gregory, smiling beatifically at him. 

Gregory chuckles, which makes Mycroft's insides twist all over again. "I believe he might be, yes. Thank you." The Queen removes her hand from Mycroft's elbow and leaves, just in time to abandon him while he ponders the idea of vomiting all over Gregory's shoes.

"Hey," Gregory turns that smile on him, but then it fades. "We need to talk." He takes Mycroft's hand, leading him over to some chairs. "Did you want to sit down?"

"Sure," Mycroft agrees. He ignores the feeling in his body that preens over the idea that his mate is taking care of him and settles into his seat. To spite all the rules he was taught about being a prim and proper Omega, he slouches down in the chair and crosses his legs. His father is probably turning over in his grave, and Mycroft is quite proud of that fact. "What did you want to talk about?"

The answer is simple. "Us."

Simple, but terrifying. 'Us' denotes a group, a coupling, a meeting of two people. 'Us' has never applied to Mycroft before, and it is not about to now. "There is no 'us', Gregory." He throws all the scorn he can muster into his voice, hoping to wound the Alpha sitting there looking at him so hopefully.

It works. Gregory goes from looking hopeful to looking completely crushed. He looks as though he has just lost all of his hopes and dreams. He looks the same way he did when he saw his wife at the time cheating on him with another man-and Mycroft would know because he had video feed in the Inspector's house and had watched that footage. The expression is the exact same as the one Gregory is staring at him with now. Here is a broken man, and Mycroft hates himself. "Stop that!" he exclaims.

Gregory is now looking a bit puzzled. "Stop what?"

"That expression. The crushed, miserable wretch expression. For goodness sake, it was a one-night stand! It meant nothing!"

"We bonded! That means something!" Gregory argues.

"We bonded because you couldn't control yourself!" Mycroft hurls back. It is cruel, but he needs to be certain this Alpha will never come bother him again.

Gregory stops. "You-you don't remember?" His expression is something between fondness and exasperation now.

"Remember what?" Mycroft demands peevishly.

"You asked me to bond you."

"I would never!"

"Fifteen times." 

The words are delivered evenly, but they are a death toll to Mycroft's spirit. He has never in all his life begged anybody to bond him, much less fifteen times! The other Alphas would have told him and he would've ended up bonded to one of them. Not that his father would- no, stop. Don't go down that path right now. Mycroft refocuses his gaze on Gregory. "I stand corrected. I apologize. My behavior is appalling if that is true."

"Even if it isn't, your behavior is still appalling," Gregory challenges with a steely glint in his eye.

"I concur." Mycroft sits and stares at Gregory in silence for a while, trying to deduce the man's motives and wishes. He cannot determine anything, and its agitating him again. "I'm going home," he announces.

"No, you're not. We need to sit here and talk about a few things first."

"Such as?" Mycroft's aiming for bored now, and he's fairly certain he's pulling it off well.

"Do you want me to move into your house?"

This question bewilders him. He lets out a humorless laugh. "Does it matter what I want? We're bonded. You do as you wish." He stands up and sweeps by Gregory, though he doesn't make it far before Gregory's hand claps around his wrist like a manacle.

"Sit," Gregory orders, and Mycroft, stunned, does as he is told for the first time in a long time. "I need you to listen to me for a minute. I don't know what kind of home life you had, though if it was anything like Sherlock's then I have a small idea. I'm not sure what your exposure to Alpha and Omega couples has been up to this point. Some Alphas do not give their Omegas a choice, I understand that, but I am not one of those Alphas, so I'm going to ask you again: do you want me to move into your house?"

"Fine. May we leave now?"

Rather than reply, Gregory moves out of the way and sweeps his hand as though to say, 'Go ahead.' Mycroft texts his driver to be ready, and to expect Gregory. They climb into the car together, Gregory leaving a healthy distance between the two of them. Mycroft appreciates this. He resolves to stare out the window and ignore Gregory, so that's how he spends the entire trip home.

Being home is something even worse. Mycroft had not expected that he wouldn't know what to do with Gregory when he returned home. A guest room was obvious, and perhaps some food, but after that, what? Should he engage in conversation? What did one do with an Alpha mate? He had a momentary vision of leaving Gregory in a corner somewhere as a decorative piece. Then he shook his head. No, probably not.

"Hello, Mycroft," Gregory calls, and Mycroft looks at him, startled. Gregory has an expression on his face that tells Mycroft he has been calling for a few minutes.

"I apologize. Were you speaking to me?"

"Yeah, I was asking if you wanted food? I would volunteer to cook, but- well- you ran off the last time."

"Certainly. I believe the cook made broasted chicken, if you are interested?"

Gregory stares at him. "You have a cook?"

"Yes, of course."

Gregory shakes his head. "Of course you do." Mycroft turns to read his expression, but he can't interpret anything. 

He turns back, disconcerted, and begins the process of baking the chicken to warm it. As it bakes, he brushes off his hands and turns to his mate. "Would you like to see what will now be considered your room?"

"Oh, you have a room for me?" Gregory questions. 

Mycroft shrugs nonchalantly. "I do now." He has mentally selected guest room number six for Gregory's use, so he leads him there now. The room was tailored to a more masculine taste, something that a man such as John might appreciate. It has a large flatscreen and a small bar, and Mycroft has observed Gregory enough to know that he would most likely enjoy this too.

Sure enough, Gregory seems pleased enough by the room. Mycroft's inner Omega is thrilled at the opportunity to provide a satisfactory nest for his mate. Angrily he shakes it off. No, this training by Father was useless! He is Mycroft Holmes, he does not pander to Alphas! He joined the government to prove a point, and having Gregory here is counterproductive to that point! He huffs off down to the kitchen, finds that his dinner is done, and serves himself before making an escape to his private office, tucked in a secret entrance within his own room. Gregory will not find this easily. Within the safety of his own office, in his own territory, Mycroft is able to relax for the first time. He must get rid of Gregory as soon as possible- the man is simply not good for his health.


	4. The Beginning of the End

In spite of Mycroft's resolve to get rid of Gregory, the man stayed. He was rather difficult to be free of, not because of anything he did personally, but because Mycroft's mind rebelled at the idea of getting rid of him. He vacillated between asking Gregory to move out (though he never officially moved in) or going to the much more drastic option of murder. Every time he even mentally broached the subject of asking the man to leave, Gregory would make eye contact and smile, and Mycroft's stomach would do that twisty thing it did every time he thought about making Gregory sad- the expression he would make- and the conversation would not be had. The idea of murder was even more despicable to Mycroft's mind. Gregory hadn't done anything to make him worthy of death, simply bonded to the wrong man. Though Mycroft had killed people and had people killed before, his stupid Omega mind did not like the idea of killing Gregory. Since he couldn't ask Gregory to move out and he couldn't kill Gregory, this meant he was staying for the time being.

There were other areas of Mycroft's life that were causing him great concern as well. Moriarty had recently been found by his team. He spoke of some code, taunting them with the knowledge of a master code that would be able to get into anything, anywhere. Mycroft had had his team try various methods of extracting the information surrounding the code, but the psychopath wouldn't budge. Violence, whether real or threatened, had no impact on the Consulting Criminal. 

Only one thing would allow them to get that code, and even then the criminal held the power because he would choose how much information to relinquish. But the asking price was very nearly too high, and Mycroft privately feared what giving the man this information would result in. It was a tense situation, something had to give, and Mycroft was very nearly certain it would be him that would be forced to fold.

On the outside, the information Moriarty requested wasn't so dangerous. Mycroft's men had warned him of Moriarty's interest in his brother. The man was scratching the name 'Sherlock' into the walls, varying the letter size and depth but always the same name, destroying his manicure with his drive to obsess over his nemesis. Because of this, it was truly no surprise that Moriarty's price for the code was knowledge about Mycroft's precious little brother.

Making up his mind, Mycroft ordered his men away from the cell and went inside. "Hello, Mycroft," the man greets, staring at his newest contribution to the wall behind them both. 

"Hello, James," Mycroft returns calmly. 

"Jim, please," the man corrects. "Or Moriarty." He flashes a white smile, settling down into a chair at the table. "So you've come to tell me about your brother?"

"No, I've come to find out about the code," he replies, sitting down across from Moriarty.

"You know my asking price, I know you were told," Moriarty says calmly. "Tell me about your brother, and in return I'll tell you about the code."

Mycroft steeples his hands. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born..."

Three hours later Mycroft walks out of that cell, immeasurably frustrated. He's hiding it well, no one can see that he's angry. Jim played him for a fool, so Mycroft finally left him go. Mycroft told him everything about Sherlock that he wished to know, and in return Jim told him that the code didn't really exist. "But you played right into my hand, Ice Man," he mocked before leaving. "Thank you." He leans forward, kissing Mycroft's cheek. "Ave, Master."

Mycroft freezes, understanding the man's taunting. 'Ave, Master.' He is well-read, knows that those were the words Judas betrayed Jesus with, along with the kiss. So then, this is how it ends. His brother will die for his stupidity.

He returns to Moriarty's old cell, staring at the name of his brother etched into the wall. It terrifies him to think that his brother will die by these same hands. Sherlock has so much to live for- his mate, his children- Mycroft cannot allow him to go innocently into the slaughter. Frantically, he pulls out his cellphone and calls his brother. Sherlock doesn't answer, so Mycroft throws his phone into the ground. It shatters, but he doesn't care. He stands up, going home. There's nothing more he can do. He's condemned his brother unto death.

When he gets home Gregory is gone, which is just as well. Mycroft doesn't want to deal with his pain on top of his own. As soon as he thinks this, Gregory comes through the door. "Hey, Mycroft!"

Greg thinks it's a bit strange that Mycroft is sitting on the couch when he gets home. Normally Mycroft is squirreled away in his office, or his room, or really any other place that Greg can't find. He takes one look at Mycroft and realizes something is really wrong. "What's wrong?" he questions, dropping to his knees in front of his mate, placing one hand on Mycroft's knee. Mycroft stares at him blankly for a moment, like he's not aware of the question, or even Greg himself.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Mycroft asks.

"Who?"

"My brother. He's dead."

"No, Mycroft, I just saw him," Greg reassures him. "I stopped by to ask him to solve a case, and he was able to using the pictures that we took of the crime scene. The suspect's in jail, and your brother and his family are doing well. In fact, Sherlock and John want to tell you they love you, and that they want you to swing by soon to see the babies again."

Mycroft's lip curls. "Then mark my words, they'll end up dead soon."

Greg shakes his head. "What is going on with you? Why so doom and gloom today?"

"You don't understand," Mycroft insists, sounding mad. "I've sent them all to the slaughter, every single one. My brother, his mate, his children, because he won't stop with just Sherlock, oh no, I know he won't. He won't stop until he's killed them all. Every. Single. One. John, Sherlock, Zyana, Michael, he won't stop until they're all gone, dead, goodbye. He asked me for the information, and I gave it to him." Mycroft reaches out, grasping onto Greg's arm and digging in with his fingers. "I gave it to him. The information. I thought I was saving the world and protecting my brother but I wasn't. It's not real. They're all going to die. Isn't it enough that I lost the one, must I lose the other? I'll be the only one left. The Ice Man. So alone. If only they knew."

"Riiight," Greg answers, reaching out and uncurling Mycroft's fingers one at a time. He has bruises in the shape of Mycroft's fingers around his wrists. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Anyway, you're not alone, you have me."

"You," Mycroft stares at him for a while. "Yes, but not for long."

"What do you mean?" Greg demands. 

Mycroft smiles a bit. "Thank you, Gregory. I appreciate your attempt to make me feel better. I'll be upstairs in bed, I'm not hungry. Please feel free to eat without me."

"Hey wait a second, Mycroft!" Mycroft advances up the stairs. "Mycroft Holmes you stop right this second!"

Mycroft freezes and turns. "Yes, Gregory?"

Greg climbs up the stairs until he's about level with Mycroft. Mycroft is pulled together again, but Greg can tell he's close to shattering all over again. "What was that? You're convinced your brother and his family are going to die- why? What did you mean when you said you lost the one, now you're losing the other? And what on Earth did you mean with the 'not for long' bit regarding me?"

"I-I can't," Mycroft states, refusing to meet Greg's eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Answer one of them, please," pleads Greg. "I'm scared too. I wasn't, but now you've scared me."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft says. He reaches out to trace Greg's cheek, staring at Greg as though he is something precious, holy. Greg feels warm all over, it is the first time Mycroft has looked at him with any kind of interest outside of his heat that made them mates. "This was never my intention."

He vanishes up the stairs, leaving Greg wondering what, exactly, was never his intention.  
.........................................................................  
After a bit of time, Greg has forgotten Mycroft's doom and gloom. Mycroft never mentioned it again, and after a while Greg mostly forgot too. Sometimes late at night questions would raise their head, but they were gone by morning light so he never got the answers to them. Life went on.

Mycroft joined him for dinner now, if they were both home at the same time. He had decided out of the blue one day to take a tray up to Mycroft when he dug out the cook's daily offerings, and Mycroft had ate it. The next day he had come down and eaten with Greg. He didn't talk- in fact he sat and stared at a newspaper the entire meal- but his presence was welcome.

Mycroft didn't seem like much of a talker, but he showed affection, or friendship, or whatever it was he was feeling in his own ways. This morning, it was a cup of the strongest coffee Greg had ever had and a donut from his favorite shop. Mycroft had slipped the bag and cup into his hands without a word this morning as he left for work, and Greg had tried to thank him with a kiss, but Mycroft's hand flew up to block him. Undaunted, Greg says,"thanks, gorgeous," flirting the tiniest bit. Mycroft had shut the door in his face.

"Sir, there's been a break-in down at the bank," Sally reports, barging into his office without knocking. If he's told her once about the knocking thing he's told her a thousand times, and some day she will regret walking in without knocking. He spares a brief thought to shagging Mycroft over this desk, the look on Sally's face. 'Right, focus Greg. Sally's waiting for an answer.'

"Not my division."

"You'll want this one."

Greg jumps into the car with Sally, and as they drive they keep getting more reports. "Pentonville Prison has been broken into," Sally relays, and Greg's tires squeal as he whips the car into the other lane, racing toward the prison. Another call, and Greg's brakes are screaming as they careen toward the Tower of London. Greg is stupified when they find Moriarty sitting on the model thrown, dressed in the Crown Jewels.

As the officers file into the room and train their weapons on him, the Consulting Criminal watches them patiently. "No rush," he drawls.

Greg is the one to advance and throw him to the ground, arresting him. As his hand brushes over the man's neck, Greg can feel evidence of a bond, covered by make-up. Moriarty snarls ever-so-quietly, and Greg withdraws his hand and slaps the cuffs on. Then he reaches down and hauls Moriarty up. When he is off the ground the man smirks, and Greg has a feeling that the man wants to be arrested for some reason. 

He tells Mycroft as much when they talk on the phone, Greg having dialed Mycroft to update him on this new development. 

"The beginning of the end," Mycroft intones.

"What are you talking about?" Greg asks, and he is once again brushed off. It's easier for Mycroft to ignore him on the phone, and Greg has a feeling that's why he prefers to talk on the phone. 

Greg hears someone's voice muffled in the background, then Mycroft says into the phone, "I have to go. I have a meeting."

"Alright. I'll see you tonight?"

"Unlikely. Keep me updated on the situation at hand." He hangs up without so much as a 'Goodbye, Greg,' and Greg can feel himself deflate in response. With nothing better to do, he decides to go interrogate Moriarty.

The man is sitting patiently in his shackles when Greg walks in, looking as though he hasn't a care in the world. "Hello, Detective Inspector," Moriarty greets him as though they're meeting in a coffee shop and not in an interrogation room.

"James Moriarty," Greg says, sitting down across from him.

"Jim, please. Oh dear, you do look miserable. Trouble with your bonded mate?"

"We're not here to talk about me," Greg replies.

"No, of course not. We're here to talk about me, which is, incidentally, one of my favorite topics to talk about." He laughs. Greg doesn't. "Come, Detective Inspector, you don't have to find me unamusing simply because you've arrested me." 

Greg isn't deterred. "I need to know how you got into the Pentonville Prison, the bank, and the Tower of London."

"Yes, I'm sure you do need to know that. Unfortunately, I'm not going to tell you. Ask your mate."

Greg freezes. "What do you mean?" The question is out of his mouth before he can warn himself that rising to Moriarty's bait is a terrible idea.

"Oh, he didn't tell you. Naughty, naughty," he teases, sing-songing the last bit. "A few months ago, your mate was kind enough to put me up in one of his offices for a while. That's code for 'he kidnapped me', darling," Moriarty expounds. "He thought I had a code that would unlock anything in the world."

"Why did he think that?" Greg asks, trying to get the interrogation back on track.

"Because that's what I told him. Do you want to know something funny? It doesn't even exist, that code. It's not real. I made it all up. And your very naughty mate tortured me for information about that code. He was infuriated when I told him it didn't exist."

"It's not possible," Greg responds. "Is it?"

"Of course not. Do you know what the problem with the brilliant ones are, Detective Inspector? The ones like Mycroft, or his brother Sherlock?" He pauses for a breath before continuing on, "They always need everything to be clever. They can't deal with the idea that something might just be dull and ordinary. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"Irrelevant," Greg answers. "So if it wasn't a code that got you into those places, what was it?"

Moriarty continues on as though he never heard Greg. "But of course, you should worry about what that means for you. Let's face it, Detective Inspector, you're not exactly intelligent. You are fairly dull and ordinary. How long before Mycroft grows weary of you? Have you ever had his affection or attention, or has he pushed you away from the beginning? 'What got you in there?' Really?" he scoffs, "Use your brain Detective Inspector! Inside men! That's what got me inside! And no, I won't tell you who it was, and I won't say anything else until my trial. Now run along home to your mate, tuck your tail in between your legs like a good little wolfie and go have Mycroft tell you that everything I've said is a lie. I will promise you he will not."

Greg feels all the color drain out of his face. He makes a few more attempts to get information out of Moriarty, but the man sits there like a stone, so Greg leaves the interrogation room. He walks home in a daze, returning to his own flat for the first time in four months. Moriarty is right about the fact that he's never held Mycroft's affection or attention, and Greg has been b***h-slapped in the face with that fact today. 

'It's over,' he reflects. 'I'm done, Mycroft. I've tried, but I think I'd have more success talking to a brick wall.' He should probably tell Mycroft this, he knows. Collapsing onto his couch, he texts Mycroft. 'I'm done. I'm sorry. -GL'

At work, Mycroft hears his phone chime. He is alone now for the first time all day, reviewing a new bill that is about to be passed, so he has no compunction about seeing who the text is from. Greg's message flashes up on the screen, and Mycroft's body runs cold, then hot as he reads Greg's text. 

He is confused, so he must ask for advice from someone who knows far more about this. The phone is ringing before he is cognizant of making a decision. "Hello?"

"Tell me honestly, the Detective Inspector is good for me, is he not?"

"Yes, of course, you know that's true."

"So if, for example, he had texted me and said he's done, it would be within my best interest to go get him back?"

"Yes, you stupid fool!"

"Put John on the line," Mycroft orders, and Sherlock huffs into the phone.

"Hey, Mycroft, what's up?" There is the sound of a baby screaming in the background, so Mycroft wisely decides to wait a moment before he responds. Conversation is held quietly, muted just enough that Mycroft can't understand what is being said, and then a door is shut and John is back on the line. "Sorry, I was changing the twins' diapers. What's going on?"

"Gregory has left me."

"WHAT?! WHY?!"

"That I do not know. It was relayed to me through text that he's done and he's sorry. I don't know what to do."

"Just go apologize for whatever you did wrong. Did you guys have a fight?"

"No."

"Was there any precipitating factor, anything leading up to this that might make you think he was upset?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"That's so unlike Greg," John muses. "Either way, I'd show up at wherever he is and tell him that you are not done with this relationship. Make it clear."

"I will, thank you," Mycroft answers. 

"No problem. Hey, Sherlock and I want to have you over for dinner soon. It's been a few months since you've been here, and the twins are growing like weeds."

"I'll stop by Baker Street soon."

"Yeah you better. I don't wanna load up the kids and visit you at work, and we'll be doing that within the next couple weeks if you don't stop by."

"I appreciate both the warning and the advice. Best of luck with the children, John, and thank you again for the advice."

He hangs up the phone and pulls up CCTV, doing a quick search. He locates his prey and sets off toward them, loading into his car and sending his driver toward them. 

Sally Donovan is just leaving work when Mycroft's car arrives. "Sergeant Donovan," Mycroft calls, "please get into the car."

She slides in without argument. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you today?" she questions, none of the teasing animosity she now uses with Sherlock on her tongue. With him, she is the consummate professional. 

"I need your help. Some point in between the arrest of Moriarty and leaving this office something went very wrong with Gregory. What was it?"

"He interrogated Moriarty. Whatever the man said really flustered him, I could tell when he came out. But when I pushed for information Greg said that he wouldn't say anything."

"Every incident where a suspect is interrogated is recorded. I must see those recordings."

"I can't just-" Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and Sally trails off, smiling sheepishly at him. "Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Get your identification ready and let's go."

After a quick flash of his identification, Mycroft and Sally are allowed to view the interrogation tape. They watch together as Moriarty speaks, revealing Mycroft's earlier kidnapping and interrogations of Moriarty. As Moriarty taunts Greg, Mycroft's hands clench into fists, and he pauses the television as soon as Moriarty is done speaking. Gregory's face is devastated, and Mycroft's Omega biology riots at the thought of causing that much unadulterated pain in his mate. He paces out of the room, leaving Sally to clean up. Something must be done, but what?

He returns home and calls up CCTV one more time, looking for footage of the man his biology claims is perfect for him. If this man is perfect, Mycroft cannot let him go no matter what. Besides, Gregory is not stupid, and he is not dull, perish the thought! His Gregory is wonderful and brilliant. His Gregory talked an Omega down from a rooftop, and arrested a top terrorist, solved hundreds of cases even without the help of Sherlock, and was anything but dull. His Gregory has brilliant silver hair, and beautiful tan skin, and lovely white teeth, and he likes having his Gregory nearby-though they don't talk, there is comfort in the silence for Mycroft, and he does enjoy his time spent with Gregory. He didn't realize that Gregory felt as though Mycroft hadn't been giving him affection and attention: hadn't Mycroft bought him a donut from his favorite shop just this morning? Hadn't he learned to brew coffee himself just this morning so he could brew Gregory's coffee? Hadn't he used his best coffee? Wasn't that showing affection and attention, or was Gregory offended because Mycroft hadn't kissed him back this morning? Mycroft had not allowed himself to be kissed because he had never kissed anyone before. Was that part of the reason he was upset? Because if it was, Mycroft could certainly learn to kiss. He should probably watch videos on Youtube first to learn, but that was certainly within the realm of possibility. Yet Mycroft had a nagging feeling his Gregory would not leave him over something so petty as a missed kiss. Something else was at play here, something Mycroft couldn't see because he wasn't good with feelings.

Deciding on a course of action, he begins meticulously packing a suitcase full of things for both Gregory and him. Gregory is his, his mate, his Perfect Match, his Alpha, and anything else is unthinkable. If Mycroft is to suffer the loss of his mate, it will be after his mate has sent him away begging for another chance. Yes, Mycroft Holmes will lower himself to begging. Gregory is his, and James Moriarty will not be the force that permanently divides them, Mycroft will not allow it. Surely either he or Gregory should be the one to end their relationship, not a terrorist.

He has his driver deliver him to Gregory's front door. Gregory is asleep in his back bedroom, Mycroft has seen it on the footage from the man's flat, and though it would be smart to knock on the door Mycroft can't bring himself to do it. He cannot be rejected right now. Rather, he slumps in front of the door, trying to gain the energy to knock on the door and be sent away. 

In the morning, Greg Lestrade nearly falls over Mycroft Holmes when he pulls open his door for his morning paper.


	5. Leaving and Losing

Mycroft wakes with a start the next morning. He is on the ground inside a door, and for a brief terrifying moment he doesn't know where he is or why he is there. He has certainly never woken up and not known where he was before! Very confused now, he blinks and looks around. He sees Gregory standing over him, and suddenly recalls Gregory's text to him from the night before, the phone call with Sherlock and John, the visit with Sally, and subsequently showing up at Gregory's door and being unable to work up the nerve to knock on the door and demand an audience with his mate.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here?" Gregory sounds exhausted and slightly irritated, but he holds the door open and allows Mycroft inside.

"Sit," he orders, and Mycroft flops on a very uncomfortable plaid couch. "So?" Gregory demands.

Mycroft shrugs. "I didn't like the way you left things."

"I left things? It wasn't me that left, Mycroft! You abandoned me emotionally long before I physically left you!" Gregory yells, and Mycroft cowers. Gregory's face softens. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled. You should just go. This mated thing isn't working about between us. You won't talk to me, you hardly even look at me, and honestly I'm not feeling a connection with you. We should just end this right now."

Mycroft is confused. "Of course I never talk to you, that's what you want!"

"What are you talking about? When have I ever made you think that I didn't want you to talk to me?"

"That's what you want, what every Alpha wants! A quiet Omega who does the housework- and I do my own housework. Is this because I don't cook? I learned to brew coffee for you, I know I can learn to cook if you want! Or is it because I deduce you? I know I'm not supposed to but sometimes it just happens and I'm sorry! I will try not to do it again, I swear!" Mycroft can hear the desperation in his tone, but he doesn't make any effort to curb it. Gregory needs to understand he is sincere.

"No, I'm not upset that you deduced me, and I'm not upset about whether you can cook or not, and quite frankly I don't care if you do your own housework or not. I'm still confused as to why you would think that I didn't want you to talk to me."

"Because that's what you want!"

"No it isn't!" Gregory argues. Suddenly he has a flash of understanding, and he says, "Who told you that?"

"Father trained me to be a good Omega. I learned to do my own housework and how to cook, only I deleted everything about cooking in a fit of rebellion as soon as I left the house. I learned to be silent unless I was spoken to so I wasn't agitating my Alpha with my nasally voice, and I learned to stop deducing so that my Alpha wasn't threatened by my intelligence." Mycroft feels a wave of sadness wash over him, and it confuses him, because he has never associated his Father's teaching with sadness before. He falls silent, pondering why he is suddenly sad.

"Mycroft, nothing of what your father taught you it true," Gregory says gently. "Your voice is not nasally, and I would not be agitated if you were to speak to me. I would prefer you to speak to me. And I promise I will never feel threatened by your intelligence. Deduce me all you want," he offers, spreading his arms and allowing Mycroft to peruse him. 

There is nothing but sincerity radiating from Gregory's every pore, Mycroft realizes. He also looks a bit sad.

"You're sad?" Mycroft clarifies.

Gregory nods. "You were taught wrong, and I left you because you were trying to follow what you were taught. That's very upsetting to me. It means I failed you as a mate."

"I'm sad too," Mycroft tells him, "though I don't understand why."

"Because you're feeling me. My emotions and yours, they're linked now that we're bonded. I can feel what you're feeling, and you can feel what I'm feeling."

"What am I feeling?" Mycroft questions, because he is curious and he doesn't know.

"Confused," Gregory answers immediately, "and curious. Wondrous, now that I'm explaining this to you."

Mycroft mentally applies these adjectives and decide they work. "I think so," he responds.

Gregory smiles, but then he stops again. "Mycroft, I need to apologize. I left without even talking to you, and I shouldn't have done that. I swear to you, I will never make that mistake again."

Mycroft nods. "Are you coming back home?" he questions, hating the way his voice sounds small.

"Hey, whoa, what was that? Why are you suddenly full of hatred when you asked that? I don't need to come back with you if you'd rather me not. I'd hate every second of it, and I couldn't promise I wouldn't hang around your property in wolf form so I could protect you, but you are under no means obligated to take me back into your house."

"I want you there," Mycroft insists. "I don't like the way my voice sounded when I said that, that's all."

"Your voice isn't nasally, Mycroft," Gregory says, flashing his white teeth again. Mycroft doesn't bother to correct him."If you want, yes I will come back to your home with you."

"Very good." Mycroft leaves the flat, waiting outside for his driver. Gregory joins him a moment later, picking up the suitcase off the stoop. He reaches out and grabs ahold of Mycroft's hand as they wait for the driver.  
.........................................................................  
A few days later Moriarty is pulled into court. Greg is not allowed to testify, which really annoys him considering he is the one to arrest the man. But for some reason the powers that be have decided Greg is not to testify. Instead, they call Sherlock in and put Greg on the clock for the day.

Mycroft is in meetings yet again, this time with the President of the United States, the Prime Minister, and the Prime Minister of Israel when Anthea sneaks in with a cup of tea, a small cookie, and a tiny note. "Sherlock's been arrested. Contempt of court." Mycroft knows he can't do anything about this, so he leaves a note back to text Gregory and have him deal with it.

Greg's in a pissy mood since he wasn't allowed to be in court, and it's only expounded by the fact that Sherlock has gotten himself arrested, according to Mycroft's text. He huffs over to the jail cell and releases Sherlock, simply charging the man's bail bill to Mycroft's account, provided to him by Anthea. Hey, if Mycroft wants him to deal with it, Mycroft can at least pay the bail money. He'll get rid of the evidence later anyway, so it's not like it will matter.

"Just for once could you survive without showing off?" Greg demands, loading a contrite Sherlock into the back of his car. 

"I am a show-off, it's what we do," he defends timidly. Greg rolls his eyes, and nothing else is said until they get to 221B.

Once at the door, Sherlock and Greg see a note that John left. 'I just got my twins sleeping. If you wake them up, I will shoot you. I'm a military man, this is a credible threat.' Sherlock chuckles quietly and lets himself inside.

John is sleeping in wolf form outside the twins' bedroom, and Greg realizes that he can hear better in his wolf form and that is why he's there. He's obviously concerned that someone might try to harm his children, and that worries Greg a bit as well. John lifts his head from his paws as they come up the stairs, and seeing Greg there too he pads away from the room for a moment, pulling himself back into human form. "Hey Greg, what's up?"

"Your mate here has gotten himself arrested for contempt of court today. I bailed him out, and I think Mycroft will probably have all the charges removed."

John's face shows relief. "Wonderful. And how long did they sentence Moriarty for?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock frowns. "Not at all. He was declared not guilty."

"WHAT?!" Greg and John both hiss together. "How on Earth is he not guilty? I caught him in the act, of course he's guilty!" Greg defends.

"He'll be coming after us, you know he will," John says. 

Sherlock nods. "Yes, he will. And probably soon." He goes into the room and wakes the twins, though they're very sleepy and snuffling as they burrow into their Daddy. "Here, John, take Zyana," he says, passing off his daughter. "Go to the park, it's a great place for children, and it's very public. There are few buildings nearby so there's less chances of snipers being around. Just hold them, they should go right back to sleep." He returns to the bedroom and grabs Michael, passing him off as well, only this time to Greg. "Go now. I don't want the children around while he's here."

"I don't want him here at all!" John whisper-argues, conscious of the baby sleeping in his arms.

"He won't hurt me, not now," Sherlock reassures his mate. "Now go!"

"I don't like this," Greg says. "So much could go wrong."

"Go!" Sherlock insists, and with one last longing look at his mate, John goes. Almost as soon as he is gone, Moriarty's footsteps are heard coming up the stairs. Sherlock has already brewed tea for them, and he is playing his violin with his back to the door when Moriarty pushes it open. "Most people knock. But then, you're not most people," he muses. "Kettle's just boiled."

Jim meanders over, lifting an apple from the fruit basket and tossing it into the air. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled. He stops at John's chair, and gestures to it. "May I?" 

Sherlock faces him for the first time. "Be my guest."

Jim sits and pulls out a penknife, carving into the apple, though not deep enough to divide it into slices. "You know, when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces," Jim says conversationally. "The boy stopped before he got to the end-"

"And the dying man jumped up, ran to the piano, and finished it," Sherlock interrupts. 

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," Jim observes.

"Neither can you. That's why you've come."

Jim smiles a bit. "But be honest, you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock confirms.

"With me. Back on the streets. Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He grins his shark-grin at Sherlock. "Because we're just alike, you and I. Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock smirks. He is literally on the side of the angels, considering his children's names. He glances at their picture for a moment, and Jim follows his gaze. "I didn't know you had children," he observes.

Sherlock shrugs. "Not something we advertise."

"Can I meet them?"

"No."

Jim laughs. "What's wrong, don't trust me?"

"You strapped a child into a bomb for fun, so that's a no."

Jim laughs again. "The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? I did tell you, but did you listen?" he sing-songs the last bit. When Sherlock doesn't respond, Jim takes that as a concession. "How hard do you find it, to say, 'I don't know?'"

"I dunno," Sherlock replies calmly. 

"Have you told your little friends yet? Why I broke into all of those places and didn't steal anything?"

"No," answers Sherlock.

"But you know why."

"Of course."

"Go on then."

"You didn't take anything because you didn't need to."

"Good!" Jim praises. "Because?"

"Because you're like me. You're a show-off, and that's what we do."

Jim snickers. "Alright, darling, I'll bite. Who was I showing off for?"

"Everyone. You have the code that can get into the highest-security places London has to offer."

"Good, very good. I can open any door anywhere with just a few lines of code. There's no such thing as private bank accounts- they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy- I own secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world full of locked rooms, the man with key is king, and honey, you should see me in a crown."

"You were advertising all through the trial," Sherlock remarks. 

"And you were helping. Thank you for that, by the way. It's a bit client list, rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells. And they all want me. Suddenly, I"m Mr. Sex."

Sherlock snickers. "If you can break any bank in the world, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't, I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well you know, you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

"You have one," Sherlock responds automatically. 

For the first time, Moriarty appears unsettled. "What?"

"Lestrade told me when he threw you to the ground he felt your bond bite. But tell me, why are you doing this?"

"I'm testing you. Finding the solution to our problem, to our final problem. It's going to start very soon, Sherlock-the fall." He whistles as though he's falling, lowering his head and staring up at Sherlock. Sherlock spares an off-handed moment to wonder how long he practiced that in front of the mirror for. "But don't be scared. Flying's just like falling, except there's a more permanent destination."

"I never liked riddles," Sherlock responded, standing again. 

Moriarty stands with him. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I...owe...you." He holds eye contact for a moment, then leans forward and brushes his lips across Sherlock's cheek in the same way he did Mycroft's. "Ave, Master." In the next moment he is gone. 

Sherlock leans over and grabs the apple, intending to throw it away. He sees Moriarty has carved the letters 'IOU' into the apple, which makes him smile. Although it would certainly be more useful if the man had told him what he planned to owe him. His heart, burnt out of him? He had threatened that before, it was possible that was what he meant. A fall? That had never been mentioned, though he had certainly implied it this time around. If it was about the children or about John, Sherlock would die before he let that happen. 

The thought makes him freeze. That's it, isn't it? That's what they have in common. He wants me dead. He doesn't know why, but he knows that by the end of this he will end up dead. But no, no he doesn't, not necessarily! There are those that can fake their deaths, people that pretend to die for some reason or another and move elsewhere. He and John could do that too, take the babies, but then John is in danger still. John will probably also need to die. But what if they could will the children to someone that would allow them to take them back, someone a bit further away that no one in England would be able to visit? Sebastian! Yes! He could...

His mind is whirling now, and he needs John to ground him, to explain what he is thinking and tell him if he even thinks this could work. As though Sherlock's thoughts have conjured him, John's footsteps are heard on the stairs, and Lestrade's behind him. "John!" Sherlock exclaims. 

He pulls his son from Lestrade's arms, waking the baby who lets out a piercing yell. Sherlock shushes him, rocking him back and forth. 

"Thanks, Gary. You need to go, he's threatened us. I don't want you caught up in this."

"Now wait just a-"

"Get out. Now." Sherlock replies.

"Alright, alright, fine. I'm going," Lestrade snarks, as he stomps over to the door and slams it open, then closed. The babies wail in tandem, and John sighs. 

"Bit not good," he remarks. 

"John, we've been threatened. Whatever it is that's coming, it's coming soon. I think I'm supposed to die."

"I'll kill anyone who dares touch you."

"I know you will, but that's not what I need. We need to stay alive, for them. And to do that, we're going to have to die." He begins laying out his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I jumped aboard the angst train, and the next chapter is even worse. Sorry, guys!


	6. Reichenbach Fall

Greg has about had it up to his neck with his stupid boss. The man had sent him to arrest Sherlock last night because someone was smearing his reputation and trying to paint him as a phony, and worse yet, a sociopath like Anderson always accused the man of being. An article had run to say that Sherlock was the one who murdered all the people whose cases he later "solved." It didn't help that Sally and Anderson had been mouthing off together, both of them telling the boss that Greg had given several cases to Sherlock. They accused him of being a sociopath, backing up the accusations of the article, and apparently that was enough for the boss to count as "reasonable doubt." No one asked Greg his opinion on the matter- that the stories were complete bulls**t- so he was sent to arrest Sherlock. He had the last laugh though. He had gotten there first, warning Sherlock about the impending arrest. Sure, he could lose his job for that, but Greg believed in "innocent until proven guilty" and one article by one stupid woman did not indicate guilt. It didn't, no matter what anyone else thought.

So Greg had, with a heavy heart, arrested the boy he thought of as a younger brother, or possibly a son. John had remained calm, rationalizing with Sherlock that it was better to go with Greg, right up until Greg's Superintendent walked through the door and started insulting Sherlock. John had morphed into a wolf and jumped at the man, and it was only Greg's quick morphing skills that had saved the man large scars down his face from John's claws. John had stopped the moment he'd seen Greg, and phased back into human and punched the man before Greg could react. Honestly, Greg couldn't say he was too upset about that. Just to be spiteful, the boys ran off and hid, and Greg wasn't too upset about that either. Wherever they were, it was better than a jail cell.

That was yesterday. Today, Greg was walking to Saint Bart's. He needed to talk with Molly about the lab results that came back on one of the corpses, because the results were saying- at least from what the Yard understood- that he could have died one of five different ways. Greg really needed to know which one because he had a suspect, he just had to know if he had a crime.

He hears people talking, and hears a boy shout, "Momma, look! That man's up on the roof!" Greg looks up just in time to watch Sherlock Holmes fall off the roof. His arms windmill for a moment, and then he hits the pavement with a resounding, 'CRACK!'

Someone is screaming, way too loud, and John is there. Greg is next to him without even being aware of his feet moving, and together two of the men that loved Sherlock most in this world turn his body over. His eyes are vacant, and Greg knows without a doubt that he is no longer alive. "Oh, God," he whispers, choking on the sob rising in his throat. 

John refuses to believe what his eyes are telling him, sliding his fingers to take his mate's pulse. When nothing thuds against his fingers in response, he screams. The sound is terrible and chilling, making the hairs on Greg's arms stand up. In a second he has morphed into a wolf, and the wolf doesn't seem capable of dealing with the dead body of its mate any more than the human. It whimpers, pawing at the body and nudging it with its nose. Sherlock's hand flops lifelessly as John nudges at it. The wolf seems to confirm what the human has already realized, and John sinks back on his haunches and howls mournfully. He turns and runs, scattering the humans standing around. 

Greg chases after him, though he doesn't know why. He is concerned, doesn't trust John to be alone now that he's just lost Sherlock. He is probably going home to hold his babies, to find something of Sherlock's and surround himself in his dead mate's scent for a while. But Greg doesn't think he should be alone, so he follows. John is faster than Greg even in wolf form, and he has bolted up the stairs and turned human, locking the door behind him. Greg turns back to human, calling through the door, "John, please open the door."

John doesn't answer. Greg hears a loud 'boom' of a gun, and he breaks the door down frantically. John has shot himself in the head, blood oozing from his sandy blonde hair into the carpet. Greg is screaming like he's never going to stop, and he hears Mrs. Hudson start coming up the stairs because she's worried. That snaps him out of it."STAY!" he barks, and Mrs. Hudson's footsteps halt on the stairs. "Please," he begs, and his voice is hoarse and dead-sounding, "don't come up. Trust me when I say you don't want to see this."

"I heard the gun, is everything alright?"

"No," Greg replies. "Nothing will ever be alright again."

"He didn't shoot the babies, did he?"

Greg jolts. The babies! He hasn't even looked for them! He runs into the twins' bedroom, heart settling into a somewhat less frantic rhythm when he sees the twins. They're fine, not one little hair on their head harmed. Not like their parents.

Greg finds a baby carrier and loads them into it, carrying them down the stairs. "Come outside," he tells Mrs. Hudson, taking her arm.

"Detective Inspector I don't understand. What was all that racket? Where's John?"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson. Trust me. You don't want to be home right now."

He walks with her down the street, at a loss with what to do, where to go. He begins walking back to Saint Bart's, because that's where his car is. He has plans to stop Mrs. Hudson before she gets too close, before she can see the young man that she considered a son with his head bashed in. It's a sight Greg doesn't want her to have in her head, much like John's death. Both will feature heavily in his dreams for years to come, he is certain.

"Greg!" Sally is there suddenly. "Did you hear?"

"Hear? I saw it happen, Sally."

"Oh! Greg, I'm so sorry!" She hugs him, though it's a very strange hug because his arms won't cooperate, he can't let go of the babies and he can't let go of Mrs. Hudson, so she just grabs his torso and holds him close for a moment. "Where's John?"

Greg doesn't answer. He tries, but the words are caught in his throat.

"Greg? Where's John?" Sally asks again.

Finally Greg speaks. "At 221B. Or rather, his body is. He shot himself in the head, Sally. I watched Sherlock fall, I watched him hit the pavement, and John and I were there, then John was running away and I chased him because I didn't want him to be alone and he locked the door and-" Greg is aware of the tears rolling down his face, but he can't be bothered to stop them. "I heard the gun. I broke down the door, but by that point it was too late."

Sally hugs him again, and so does Mrs. Hudson. They all have tears rolling down their cheeks now, caught up in the pain of their friends' suicides. "It's better this way," Sally tells them, sniffling. "They were a Perfect Match in every sense of the word. As soon as I met John, it became hard to remember what Sherlock was like before him, you know? At least now they're still together, and they're happy too."

This sets off another wave of tears in Mrs. Hudson. "Perfect Match," Greg whispers. "Oh God. I have to go tell Mycroft."  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft is in yet another meeting when he feels a wave of anxiety go through him. His heart is racing, and he clutches his chest. 'Am I having a heart attack? That would be fairly ironic.' He's screaming on his knees, having slid off his chair and onto the carpet. He screams like he's never going to stop, and he can't figure out what is going on, or how to stop it.

Anthea is there, helping him stand. "Mycroft, what is it?"

"I don't know. Something's wrong." His heart still feels like it's going to pound out of his chest, and he can feel the sweat pouring off of him. He's gasping for breath, and he's fairly certain he's dying. Are heart attacks supposed to be this painful? All at once he lurches to the ground again, screaming. The feeling abates abruptly, and Mycroft pulls himself to his feet without difficulty. "I'm fine," he tells Anthea, who is hovering nearby to catch him if he hits the ground yet again. A wave of sorrow crashes over him, and Mycroft remembers Gregory's words to him about their being bonded: they can feel each other's emotions. Wherever Gregory is, he is hurting badly.

"Gregory," he gasps to Anthea. She is the only one in the room that matters right now. "There's something wrong with my mate."

Anthea begins calling, but Gregory's phone is turned off and they can't get through. Mycroft holds out his hand for his phone and paces into the waiting area, anxious with fear over his mate. He rings him again. No response. His phone starts clicking with incoming texts, but he ignores them all as he tries to ring Gregory again and again. There is still no response. Would he feel it if Gregory died? Was that what this was? Mycroft had no idea, but he wasn't too happy with not knowing. Where was his mate?

Minutes later, Gregory is running through the door. Mycroft catches sight of him as he sprints in and runs over to him. He has already viewed fifty-one different ways Gregory could have died as he was waiting for news, and it is such a relief to see his mate. At the last moment, he remembers who he is and where he is and stops. "Gregory. You're alright. I could feel you, I hit the ground and started screaming. I'm glad you're alright," he offers, poorly conveying the anxiety he felt. He stops and reads his mate, sees the tear tracks down his cheeks and the way his chest is heaving. "Gregory, whatever is the matter?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock and John are dead. I'm so sorry."

Mycroft isn't aware of anything past that. Someone is talking, but it comes out sounding muffled and far away. Mycroft turns, he needs to get to his office to pull up CCTV. Sherlock isn't dead, neither is John, because that would mean it is Mycroft's fault, that he killed them himself. He's the one that gave Moriarty the information that allowed that article to be printed by that horrid Kitty Riley that crushed Sherlock's reputation. Besides, Moriarty had plenty of time to strike before, he would have gotten to them then. Mycroft will bring up CCTV, and Gregory will realize that Sherlock and John are both still alive and they will be happy. Mycroft will go over for dinner like he promised he would but kept procrastinating on, and perhaps he will even tell John and Sherlock about this misunderstanding and they will all laugh together.

Mycroft has reached his laptop and is powering it up, and Anthea is stopping him. Mycroft isn't sure when she came out of the conference room and it is a shock to him that he doesn't know. She's closing the computer screen, and he's not sure what she says to him because those words are muffled too but he's sure that he needs to see that Gregory is wrong. It's not real. Maybe he had had a nightmare at work, and he only believes Sherlock and John are gone. Gregory says something, and Mycroft jumps. When had his mate entered his office? Why didn't he know these things? The only thing he was sure of was that Sherlock wasn't dead, he couldn't be because Mycroft had just raised him and handed him off to John for goodness sake, and if he could just get to the computer then he could prove that. Whatever Gregory tells Anthea must make sense to her, because she releases the screen and backs off a respectful distance. Gregory doesn't leave, his hand takes up residence on Mycroft's shoulder like it belongs there.

Mycroft pulls up the footage from Bart's first. He can see the crowd of people around it currently, and he rewinds it, playing back. He watches in reverse as Gregory lopes backwards as a wolf, John running behind him. Minutes before that Sherlock rises through the air gracefully up onto the rooftop, and Mycroft freezes the tape. His fingers reach, out of his control to caress his brother's face for what will be the last time. With a heavy heart, he pushes play and watches his brother plummet to the cement. Though he has no sound, his brilliant mind fills in for him what it sounded like, and the room is filled with broken sobs that take Mycroft an unnaturally long time to pinpoint as his own. He continues to play the tape through, watches as Gregory and John turn Sherlock's body over, as the tears roll down Gregory's cheeks as he realizes what John refuses to accept. He watches John give up hope and morph into a wolf, and his confusion over his loss. He watches him run away, and he brings up the feed into 221B. He has not watched this footage for a long time- did not want to see anything of his brother's and John's more private relationship- but today it feels appropriate. He watches John run in as a wolf and transition into a human. He sees him slam the door and lock it, can hear Gregory calling outside the door. His eyes are glued to the screen as John takes out his gun. He places it in his mouth, and even though Mycroft is certain of what will happen it has a surreal quality to it. He almost believes that Gregory will break down the door, take the gun from John, and console the man. If this were a movie, John would still be alive, but this is real life. He watches with horror as John places the gun in his mouth and pulls the trigger, falling to the ground as though he's a puppet that's had his strings cut. He crumples and the camera goes to static as though it was tied to his life-force, and Mycroft is left with static ringing in his ears. 

Mycroft is crying, he can feel the moisture running down his face. He hasn't cried in years, not since that fateful day when he...'No! Don't think of that now. Sherlock and John are dead, focus on that. You don't need more pain.' Gregory is crying too, Mycroft is distantly aware of his tears falling onto Mycroft's shoulder and wetting his suit. His hand is still on Mycroft's shoulder, and his other arm is wrapped around his waist. Mycroft isn't sure if he's offering support or borrowing it, because his entire body is shaking with the force of his sobs. Yet Gregory still clings to Mycroft, helping to keep him standing. Mycroft spins to look at Anthea and realizes she is crying too, silent tears dripping off her cheeks. She meets Mycroft's gaze, and he feels everything crumble. Standing is too much work, and he collapses into his chair, taking Gregory along with him. Sherlock and John's deaths have broken them all.  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft had thought his heart was through with its breaking. The joint funeral for John and Sherlock had been today, and Mycroft couldn't honestly say how it went. He didn't remember much of it, everything surrounding the memory of it was hazy and foggy. He knows they had closed caskets, he had selected the beautiful oak himself, like it somehow made up for the fact that he was the reason they were in these caskets in the first place. 

Interestingly enough though, he had come to find that he was not the only one blaming himself. Gregory was under the impression that he had been the one to cause the deaths, first by arresting Sherlock and then by chasing John. "I believed him, you know?" Gregory kept asking Mycroft in the days following their deaths. "But I didn't tell him, and he committed suicide because he thought he was all alone. And John, I just didn't want him to be alone, and instead he shot himself. I didn't want him to die, Mycroft. I just wanted to let him know he wasn't alone, since I failed Sherlock. And instead I failed him too."

"I'm so sorry," Sally states sincerely, "he asked me to do it, to tell all those lies about him. I didn't understand, but he said to just trust him and that he had a plan. He told me it would be better to distance myself from him, that I needed to publicly denounce him. I didn't know that he would commit suicide because I followed his directions."

Every time Mycroft tries to find the words to reassure the others that he doesn't blame them, it gets caught in his throat. The slimy politician with the silver tongue is gone, and Mycroft can't find him no matter how hard he searches. He must have died with his brother and with John.

Mycroft has lost his mate to their deaths, too. Gregory becomes obsessed with finding out how Sherlock died, because he seems convinced that Sherlock did not jump off that rooftop himself. "He wouldn't commit suicide, he just wouldn't," Gregory insists, "he had so much to live for. John and the twins would never turn against him, and he didn't care what anyone else thought of him. What if he didn't commit suicide? What if he was forced?" Gregory has scoured CCTV looking for clues of a second person up on that rooftop on that fateful day, and when that turned up nothing because the angle was wrong and you couldn't see Sherlock until he stood up on the ledge, then he went to the roof himself and searched around for hours until he fell asleep on the same rooftop out of pure exhaustion. When Mycroft finds him in the night, he whispers brokenly, "I keep hearing him calling me an idiot." He cries again.

Mycroft has taken care of the twins, treating them like they were his own children. During the funeral they had served as a nice distraction to help keep the tears at bay, allowing him to bounce them around and coo to him. Even the babies are out of sorts, as though they sense that their parents are dead. And perhaps they do, Mycroft doesn't know much about babies, so this may be within the realm of possibility.

Molly Hooper is the last person in line, and she touches Mycroft's arm kindly. "I'm sorry for your loss," she tells him genuinely. He nods, unable to speak.

They enter into another room, one where Sherlock and John's lawyer sits. Apparently the couple had drawn up a will for them, and it was going to be read today after the funeral, because those were the instructions Sherlock left. He finds Gregory within the group of people gathered. Mrs. Hudson, Sally, and Molly are all gathered as well, but Mycroft only has eyes for Gregory as he sinks to the floor by his legs, cradling the twins to his body. Michael has drifted off to sleep, and Zyana looks close behind. 

"Now that everyone is present, I will begin the reading. 'This is the last will and testament of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson. In the events of our untimely deaths, we would like our children, Michael Gabriel Holmes and Zyana Avery Holmes, to remain under the care of John's friend Sebastian Moran. We have spoken with him of our wish and he concedes. Mycroft and Gavin (Greg, John corrected), we understand that you probably thought that you would end up raising the children. The problem is, we need brilliant police officers like Gavin (Greg) within New Scotland Yard. You can't work the hours you do and raise children, it simply isn't possible. Mycroft, the world needs you more than we do. We don't resent you for that. We would ask however that the two of you take our children to Sebastian, wherever he may be, at the time of our unlikely deaths.'"

There is a roaring in Mycroft's ears, and he can't hear if the lawyer continues speaking or not. "We're going to have to give up the children?" he confirms, already knowing what the answer is. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but yes," the lawyer tells him kindly. "It was your brother's wish that Mr. Moran be the one to raise the children."

"Who witnessed this will?"

"Miss Molly Hooper, sir."

Mycroft's frantic gaze lands on Molly. "My brother did drugs one time in his life that I know of," he begins. "Please, Miss Hooper. I'm begging you, please tell me that there were some other times that he did them that I didn't know about. Please tell me that he was high when he wrote this, and that we get to keep the babies. Or better yet, tell me that this is all some practical joke. I'm begging you," he pleads, voice cracking, "please tell me he doesn't mean it! Please!"

Molly is crying now. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes. Sherlock and John were both of sound mind when they wrote this."

Mycroft is shaking his head in denial. "No! He couldn't have been! They're all I have left of him, tell me he wouldn't take that too! Please! Tell me the truth! Please!"

"I'm so sorry," Molly repeats and Mycroft breaks apart. He holds his niece and nephew close and sobs as though it is the day of his brother's death all over again. In the past few days he has come to love his niece and nephew like they are his own children, and he had been fully expecting to become guardian of the children, along with Gregory, if Sherlock and John were to pass. He cannot fathom that they would try to take the children from him. They are all he has left of his brother, a tangible reminder that his brother walked this Earth for twenty years. A very distant part of Mycroft's mind prays Gregory is better-controlled than he is, because he is no longer listening to the reading of the will. It doesn't matter any more. He doesn't care about the money nor 221B, he cares about the twins that are about to be pried from his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone gets too mad at me for this, I cried while writing this. So sorry for the angst. It hurt me too, I swear.


	7. To Live you Have to Die

It was nearly time for their flight to leave-flight meaning Mycroft's own jet- and Mycroft could tell Gregory was agitated. He was also agitated, though he felt he was hiding it a lot better than Gregory. It was almost time to hand the twins off to Sebastian Moran, and neither Gregory nor Mycroft himself were ready for it. 

Gregory hadn't slept well the night before. He had fallen asleep in the twins' bedroom, sprawled on the fluffy rug Mycroft had purchased when he had planned a guest room for his niece and nephew. It was a yellow shag carpet and very comfortable, if the snores emanating from Mycroft's mate were anything to go by. Mycroft had found him quite by accident when he had ventured into the room to be sure that the twins were sleeping, and had been fortunate to not trip over his mate. He had briefly considered waking him, but had decided that he should let his mate where he was. That turned out to be a huge mistake, considering the wood floor beneath the carpet. Gregory woke up sore and grumpy, as if he wasn't already upset enough. The day was bound to be interesting.

Even getting onto the plane had been a fiasco. Mycroft had never realized quite how much work it took to prepare two babies for a day. First you had to change their diapers, then feed them. After feeding you should dress them, only Michael had so much food down his front that he got a bath. Next, dress both babies. Then change Zyana after she spit up. Then change Michael, who had had a big blow-out in the diaper. Change clothes again. Grab baby supplies. Check, and recheck, the baby bag to be sure you have everything. How many diapers did one need for a baby? Had everything that the twins really loved been packed up? Where was that stuffed animal that made Michael cry if he didn't have it? Once he located that, Michael had started to cry quietly because he was hungry again, so Mycroft fed him, then he fed Zyana again, and- good Lord, would Gregory ever wake up? Then Zyana started screaming and could not be consoled and Mycroft finally screamed back that he missed her parents too because that was the only thing that made sense for why she would be crying, and that had been what had finally woken Gregory. Bless the man's soul, he had taken both children, walking around with Zyana and bouncing her until she was calm. He hustled both Zyana and Michael out to the car, strapping in both children, then returned to grab his mate and a quick breakfast for himself. Somehow they had fit the four of them together in the back seat, Gregory balancing a coffee on his lap, a bagel on his knee, and rocking the twins with his hands. How he did it Mycroft will never understand. Everything would have been perfect, if not for the fact that Mycroft realized they had left the boxes with the baby supplies behind. A quick word to the driver and they were racing back, and they both ran in and out of the house slamming the door several times as they got everything loaded into the trunk. Then they loaded into the car yet again, speeding down the road, with Gregory thanking God that the larger items had already been loaded onto the jet. Mycroft quietly agreed. 

Getting the twins onto the jet turned out to be much easier, and they were soon in the air flying toward Afghanistan. Mycroft reclined his seat, reaching over to pull his niece into his arms, letting her snuggle against him. It was a shame that he couldn't consider kidnapping the twins, because Mycroft already adored his niece and nephew. But he knew that his brother had not wanted him and Gregory to raise the children-for whatever reason- and that he would have neither the time nor energy to devote to caring for a child full-time. If one screaming spell was enough to reduce him to infant behavior as well, then what would the dreaded "terrible twos" do to him? Or worse yet, teenage years? As much as Mycroft hated to admit it, he had to consider the idea that Sherlock's last wishes were right, Mycroft would not be a good parent figure. Sebastian probably would be better.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the baby in his arms, Mycroft reaches into his bag and pulls out his file on Sebastian Moran. He flips through with unsteady fingers, trying to reassure himself that the harsh-looking military man would be a wonderful caregiver for his beloved niece and nephew. He had reviewed this file one hundred thirty-two times already, but surely one more could not hurt. He stares at the picture of the Army man, reminding himself that the man had taken care of Sherlock and John both. Surely if he could handle them he was good enough for the twins. Mycroft reaches into his Mind Palace, looking for the memories of that fateful day when he believed he had lost his seventeen-year-old brother on foreign soil. Sebastian had been one of the first troops sent out looking, and had remained in almost-constant contact with Mycroft. He had been kind and comforting, so Mycroft was happy to think that he would be able to wipe the tears from the children's eyes when they fell taking their first steps, or during their first heartbreak, or perhaps when they woke up in the night screaming from nightmares.

He feels a presence beside him, but his senses reassure him that it is only his mate. "What are you looking at?"

Mycroft realizes with a sudden sense of shame that he has yet to share Sebastian's file with his mate. Perhaps it will bring him a sense of comfort as well. "The file on Sebastian Moran. Here, you should take it," he offers, holding out the file. 

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to take it if you weren't done with it."

"This is my one hundred and thirty-third time looking over his profile. I believe I can spare it for the sake of setting your mind at ease."

Gregory takes the file, flipping it open to stare at Sebastian's Army picture. "Not the most friendly-looking chap, is he?" Gregory says absentmindedly. 

"He is quite friendly in person," Mycroft replies to reassure his mate. The sudden flare he gets through their bond in response surprises him.

"Exactly how friendly is he?" Gregory practically bites out, and Mycroft withdraws. Here it is then, here is the anger he has been waiting for. He slams up his Ice Man persona, slipping into it with practiced ease. Within this familiar facade it is easier to pretend he is unaffected by whatever outburst Gregory has been saving up for.

Gregory surprises him yet again. His tone turns gentle, nearly giving Mycroft whiplash from the unexpected mood swing. "Mycroft, how friendly was he? Nothing you didn't want?"

Mycroft puzzles over the words quietly, trying to piece them together with the last question. 'Oh! Gregory was...jealous?'

"He was merely a kind soul when I believed I had lost my little brother to the Afghanistan countryside. He was one of the first out to look for Sherlock, and we were in close contact for a week. There was nothing else, nothing untoward."

He can feel Gregory's relief as a palpable thing. "Good." Nothing else is said for several minutes as Gregory flips through the file. "There's one thing I don't understand," he says, flipping the folder closed, "what makes him so much better suited to care for the twins?"

Mycroft shrugs. "It was their wish. I can't understand it, either."

The plane hurtles toward Afghanistan, and both men shift restlessly. Gregory's agitation flows through the bond, and it annoys Mycroft. Perhaps you should take the baby and go to sleep for a bit," he suggests finally as Gregory stretches his long legs for the tenth time in as many minutes.

"Yeah, good idea," Gregory replies. He holds Michael close, and then with a bit of help he held Zyana too. Within minutes, the three are snoring in tandem. Mycroft smirks at them a bit, raising his phone to snap a picture. Some day, he is sure Gregory will want this picture.

Long before Mycroft is ready the pilot announces that he will land the plane. Gregory jerks awake, Mycroft hovering nearby to catch one of the twins in case Gregory forgets he is holding them, but his fears are unfounded. Both children are strapped in, and then Gregory and Mycroft strap themselves in as well. 

They land, and Mycroft and Gregory disembark, deciding to leave everything on the plane except the twins. Gregory can't seem to bare to be parted from the children any sooner than he must, and so he pulls Zyana out of the seat and holds her. Mycroft takes Michael without argument, relishing in the opportunity to be close to his nephew one last time. 

As soon as they get off, Mycroft's eyes light upon the young soldier standing in parade rest waiting for them. Sebastian Moran has not changed in the two years since Mycroft has last seen him, which he believes to be a good thing. As they approach, Sebastian moves. "Hello, Mr. Holmes, sir," he greets, shaking Mycroft's hand with vigor. "I heard about your brother. I'm so sorry for your loss, he was a wonderful boy."

"I am sorry for your loss as well. John was a kindhearted man." Mycroft can feel Gregory shifting nervously behind him, and he reaches out a hand to calm his mate. "Allow me to introduce my mate, Gregory," Sebastian shakes his hand, "my niece Zyana and my nephew Michael."

Sebastian's gaze is instantly taken by the babies. "My God, they're beautiful," he whispers reverently. "Look at that hair! That's all John's color, there. Oh, and those eyes are definitely Sherlock's! And those curls! Always figured them boys would make beautiful babies together, but these two just top everything I could've ever imagined." He coos to each child in turn, though neither one responds to him. They don't smile but they don't cry either, they just stare at the strange man hovering above them. 

Sebastian turns to them. "Here, come along, I'll show you to my house." They follow obediently after Sebastian, with Mycroft and Gregory walking side-by-side behind him. Gregory's knuckles are nearly white, and Mycroft pities him. It doesn't take a deductive genius like him or Sherlock to realize that Gregory is agonizing over the idea of releasing the child in his arms, regardless of how friendly the soldier in front of them seems.

They stop in front of a small house. "Here, come inside," Sebastian says, holding the door open for them. "I have something important to show you."

Gregory and Mycroft peruse the house together. "It's a lovely home," Gregory offers tentatively, as though he was surprised. 

"Thanks. It's not much, but it's home."

Mycroft is ready to know about the important thing. "What is it you wanted to show us?" he questions. He's been actively trying to deduce the answer but can't get anything from the soldier of use.

"Something that I think will really set your minds at ease about letting the babies with me." He turns, and yells out, "Guys, it's alright!"

The response is instantaneous, and something that has Mycroft's heart freezing, then leaping within his chest. Sherlock steps out from the door, John right behind him. Gregory gasps, the only sound in the quiet room.

John passes his mate, and reaches for his child. As though the spell is broken, Gregory snarls fiercely and recoils, clutching Zyana closer. "No! You're not real, you're dead, this is all a dream!"

"Greg," John begins, though he never gets any further.

"You see but you do not observe, Lestrade," Sherlock complains. "It's really us."

"Prove it."

"Mycroft," Sherlock says, and Mycroft starts as his brother's cerulean blue eyes that Mycroft had last seen close over CCTV hold his, "our father didn't die in a hunting accident. He was killed by our mother in a fit of rage when she realized what he had done to us."

Mycroft lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. "It's him," he tells his mate, feeling his eyes begin to tear up.

Gregory moves then, crushing John into a hug. Zyana smiles up at her Papa, then she giggles. "Hi, honey," John greets, taking his daughter from Gregory and kissing her on her chubby cheeks.

Sherlock reaches for Michael, and Mycroft hands him over carefully. He pulls his brother into an awkward but heart-felt hug, whispering "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Me too," Sherlock whispers in response, and both brothers snort together. "How have the twins been?"

"Angels, considering."

"You had a rough morning."

"Several."

"And the mate?" The brothers turn in tandem to watch Gregory conversing with John, John using his hands to gesticulate something while Gregory watches raptly.

"He's...fine."

"What a glowing commendation," Sherlock sneers. 

Mycroft pulls back his lips so his teeth are showing. "What would you have me say?"

"The truth. How is he? Was I right, do you like him?"

"He's tolerable."

"Honestly, Mycroft. I despair for your future."

"As I despair of yours. When do you plan to return to England?"

"Once Moriarty's men are dead. It may take years. We intend to travel the world and rid it of Moriarty's spiderweb, one strand at a time."

"And no one else could do this, why?"

"He wanted me dead. He got his deepest desire, as best he knew, before he pulled the trigger and killed himself."

Mycroft watches Gregory blanch and turn toward them, completely forgetting his best friend he was just talking to. "What did you just say? Moriarty's dead?"

"I watched him shoot himself in the head. I didn't want to jump, but when he began threatening John, Mrs. Hudson, and you, Lestrade, I knew I had to act. He had snipers in place should I refuse. I believed that perhaps he had a code he could give them, but then he shot himself in the head, literally bit the bullet as I was watching, so I jumped and let everything proceed according to the plan Molly, John, and I had laid out. John had to play his role too, I figured Moriarty would kill him and the children so I had him kill himself too. It was unfortunate that you chose to break down the door when you did, Lestrade, I didn't want you to be the one to find his 'body' but better you than Mrs. Hudson, I suppose."

"I took your pulse, both of you! And John, I was right behind you! How on Earth did you have enough time to hide away before I broke down the door?"

"It was a close thing. But we had built a secret entrance that led from 221B down to 221C, so I 'committed suicide' and ducked into the secret entrance. We've been living down there for the past week, we only flew out here yesterday."

"I had cameras, shouldn't I have caught you building that secret entrance?" Mycroft argues.

"Do you truly believe I can't hide things from you if properly motivated, Brother?" Sherlock teases. "I knew about your cameras and would frequently hack them and roll back the same empty footage again and again. We left them up so you would believe John was dead, then cut the power so you wouldn't see him jump back up and duck into the secret entrance."

"When do you plan to begin dismantling the spiderweb?" Mycroft questions.

"We have a plane flying out to...an undisclosed location tonight," John answers. "We'll be in contact, but I would expect radio silence for the most part. Remember, no news is good news."

"Come, Sebastian made us all lunch," Sherlock says. Now that he mentions it, Mycroft realizes he can smell the delicious scent of a fresh roast permeating the air. He leads the way into the tiny dining room, hearing everyone else troop along behind him. 

They all eat in silence, besides the occasional, "Wow, this is really good," or "Hey, can I have more mashed potatoes?" that are heard. Mycroft doesn't know about everyone else but he needs some time to process everything. When he gets on the plane there will need to be some reorganization done of the Mind Palace to be able to properly compute this new data.

Sherlock and John leave in a whirlwind, rushing the twins out. John runs back and forth between Mycroft's jet and the chopper that they are taking, loading the baby's things that they need. When he is done there are heartfelt hugs on all accounts, and then they are disappearing into the blue sky like a magician's trick.

Gregory turns to Sebastian, who is standing next to them waving goodbye. "I owe you an apology," he says. "I didn't want the twins to go with you, I judged you as inferior without even knowing you. The twins would've been fine growing up with you."

Sebastian snorts. "If I was in your position, I would've hated me too. No biggie." He turns to look at the sky again. "They're going to be okay, you think?"

"They're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Gregory answers. "They literally just died and came back. I think they'll be fine."

Mycroft chimes in, "My brother and his mate are very strong."

"John's a crack shot," Sebastian says, "and Sherlock's a bit of a psycho. Whoever this Moriarty guy is, I sure pity the people that they're going after."

"Mind your tongue, he's my brother," Mycroft chides. 

Sebastian laughs. "Simmer down. I love that kid too." He turns back to the sky again. "Be safe, ya idiots." He marches back into his house, slamming the door behind him for good measure. 

"We should go," Gregory says. "Are you ready, Mycroft?"

Mycroft has a sudden realization as he stands on the sands of Afghanistan: it is only him and Gregory for who knows how long from here on out. He doesn't have his brother and John to use as a crutch anymore, he can't hide out with them like he used to when the world got too overwhelming. There is only this man in front of him. Gregory offers his hand, and Mycroft takes it. In his mind, he claims Gregory as his own right in that moment. They are bonded, yes, but he- outside of the yearning of his heat- is declaring that he wants this man. They walk back together toward Sebastian's house to say goodbye.


	8. A Terrible Mistake

Mycroft had a feeling that it was high time he learned to accept Gregory. If he was honest with himself, and he often tried to be since there were so few other people he could be honest with, he was pushing Gregory away simply because he could and not because of anything the man himself had done. They had been living together for three months now, and Gregory had never done anything to make Mycroft feel as though he was going to end up abused by his mate. He also had come to realize that he was not his mother, and he had the capability of leaving the relationship if he wanted to. This meant it was time to gather his courage and be a good Omega to his mate.

Mycroft stared at the chair across from him where Gregory was sprawled. The fire danced across his face, which had the effect of making him look even tanner than he was. He had his legs hanging over one arm of the chair, feet long enough that they just barely brushed the floor. He was...good, as far as Alphas went. He was pretty to look at, relatively smart, muscular, protective, kind, compassionate, and he looked nice in his Detective Inspector uniforms. Sometimes Mycroft even liked the way his butt looked in the pants he wore. He blushes to think about it, and of course that's when Gregory looks up.

"What?" he queries, an affectionate smile playing across his face.

Mycroft shakes his head, unwilling to confess to having ever ogled his mate's rear.

"You're embarrassed, I can feel that through the bond. Is it because I caught you staring at me?"

"I'm not staring!"

Gregory laughs. "Sure you aren't. What's the matter? Your face is almost as red as your hair, it's adorable."

Mycroft pouts. "I'm not adorable," he responds, crossing his arms over his chest so Gregory is aware he is displeased.

"Are you pouting?"

"No!"

"Don't think that just because you're pouting means you're getting out of this conversation. I want to know why you've been staring at me for the past hour."

Mycroft looks up at the clock. Sure enough, an hour has passed since he first realized that he needs to be friendlier to his mate. "No reason, really. Don't be alarmed." He stands, ready to make his escape.

What he doesn't plan on is Gregory standing with him. "I swear I won't laugh. Tell me," he urges.

"I was just thinking that sometimesIenjoythewayyourrearlooksincertainoutfits," Mycroft blurts out.

"I didn't catch that."

Mycroft stomps his foot. Now Gregory is just being difficult. "I SAID, SOMETIMES I ENJOY THE WAY YOUR REAR LOOKS IN CERTAIN OUTFITS! ARE YOU DEAF, MAN?"

Greg laughs. "No, I'm not deaf, you daft sod. Thanks for telling me." Mycroft is staring at the ground, face looking like a tomato. "Hey, look at me," Greg says, putting his finger under Mycroft's chin and drawing his mate toward him. Mycroft still won't meet his eyes. "Hey, what's the matter? Talk to me, Mycroft."

Mycroft shakes his head mutely.

"Do you want to know a secret?" Greg asks. Mycroft nods, though he still refuses to turn his head. "Sometimes I like to look at your rear too."

"Do not mock me," Mycroft snaps angrily, yanking away from Greg, and Greg's head spins with the sudden mood whiplash. Mycroft's eyes look fiery, he glares at Greg. 

"Mycroft, I'm not making fun of you!"

"I am well aware I'm not nice to look at, in fact I'm downright ugly-"

"No you are not! I think you're very attractive, thank you very much!" Greg argues.

Mycroft huffs. "Are you blind? Look at me! I'm fat, I'm ginger, I have no muscles, and I have freckles. I look like a member of the Weasley family in that Harry Potter series that's so popular with the adolescents. They're not attractive."

Greg snorts. Of all the arguments he would have expected, 'I look like a Weasley' was not among them. "As far as I remember, plenty of people love the Weasleys. But that's not the point. You are not ugly. I wouldn't lie to you about this, I think you are breathtakingly gorgeous. You're ginger and you have freckles, which I love. Your eyes are this beautiful color that always change. You have these legs that go on for miles, and don't even get me started on your stomach because you are not fat. Your suits make you look powerful, and that's a huge turn-on to me. I love the way you look, the way you dress, and everything about you. And honestly, yes I do like to look at your butt, I think it looks great in just about every single pair of suit pants you own!"

Mycroft is silent for a long while, pinning Greg with his stare as he tries to deduce. The only word to leave his mouth is, "Oh."

He tries to leave, but Greg grabs his arm. "Hey, don't just leave, alright?"

"Thank you," Mycroft replies stiffly, eyes trained on a point along the wall. "I appreciate the lies."

"Oh my goodness," Gregory begins, but he doesn't get further before Mycroft has tugged his arm free.

Greg acts, pouncing on Mycroft as he tries to leave. Mycroft falls to the floor, and Greg climbs atop him, Alpha wolf snarling lightly at his Omega beneath him. His Omega must be shown how much Greg loves him, because at the moment he doubts Greg's affection. He cradles Mycroft's head even as he pounces, so that his mate doesn't knock his skull on the hardwood floor.

Mycroft's eyes widen and his breathing noticeably picks up speed. Greg is proud of this fact, believing that this means he is finally showing Mycroft how the man affects him, and Mycroft is realizing it too. He leans down to kiss his mate and receives a kick to the stomach for his trouble. All the wind rushes out of Greg and he crumples into a ball. Mycroft takes the opportunity to run upstairs, and Greg hears a door slam somewhere within the house. 'This has been a terrible mistake' Greg reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. The next one will be longer to make up for it!


	9. The Truth About Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft ran upstairs and hid, his heart racing. There was no need to kick Gregory in the stomach like he had just done, but the flashback had convinced him that his mate was going to- 'No, stop!' he orders himself fiercely. 'This won't help anything.' He clutches his head, gasping as the memories try to rush him. He enters into his Mind Palace, slamming the lid on those boxes that are coming open.

Once he finally leaves his self-absorbed state, he realizes the date. It's September 7, the day before his little brother was brought into the world twenty years ago. Making up his mind, he fumbles with the phone until he calls up his mother. Within minutes he has plans to visit with her and stay the night. He hangs up, satisfied with the idea that he has managed at least one thing correctly in his life. His personal life is going to h**l, but at least he's managed to care for his mother.

The morning light brings its own sense of problems. Mycroft had completely forgotten about the fact that Gregory was currently living with him. It felt rude to leave his mate without ever saying a word, but he didn't really want to go speak about what had happened yesterday. Those issues had been boxed away, and he wasn't going to dig them out to discuss them.

Making up his mind, he hurried downstairs. Gregory was already up, preparing coffee for himself and tea for Mycroft. "Good morning," he greets calmly, handing his Omega the cup of tea. Mycroft doesn't answer him, though he nods. "Mycroft," Gregory says, touching his wrist lightly. "I need to apologize for yesterday. To jump on you like that was not-" he clears his throat "-I shouldn't have done it. There were better ways to go about that, and I'm sorry. I don't fault you for kicking me in the stomach, you need to know that too. You should do it again if I ever do anything you don't want. You need to protect yourself, whatever form that takes."

"No, that was inappropriate on my part," Mycroft argues. His mate's confession has stunned him into silence, nearly stopping his thoughts. "Are you hurt? I didn't intend...let me see the wound please."

"There's really no need," Gregory protests, but Mycroft has already moved. He pulls Gregory's shirt out from his belt, rucking it up and allowing his hands to ghost over his mate's abdomen. There are two large black-and-blue bruises coloring Gregory's abdomen, and Mycroft traces over them gently. Gregory gasps, and Mycroft's eyes fly up to his. "Mycroft, you can't...you can't do that."

Mycroft's eyes trace over his mate's face. "Gregory, does it hurt? There could be all kinds of issues: internal hemorrhaging, ruptured spleen, punctured gall bladder, and a whole mirage of other things."

"Um, no, no that's not it. You're just really testing my control right now."

Mycroft stares at him for a moment before he realizes what Gregory means. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" He backs off, feeling his cheeks flame up in response. 

"No big deal," Gregory answers. "Just- you can't be doing that." There is a long pause in which Mycroft pretends not to notice that Gregory is currently trying not to jump him again. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"Today is September 8. I made plans to go with my mother, to stay with her today. It's my brother's birthday today, and I don't believe that she should be alone, considering that she still believes my brother is dead. Would you like to come along?" he offers tentatively.

"Sure. Do you think we'll hear from him today?"

"Doubtful. His birthday was never an important day to him, just something we all celebrated for him. Ironic, considering he loves for people to pay attention to him."

Gregory grins. "How old is he today?"

"Twenty."

"So we're going to go hang out with your mom for the day? That's sweet." Gregory says. 

Mycroft nods. "We should probably be leaving now, as a matter of fact."

They head out, loading into the back of Mycroft's car. A bit later they are unloading in front of Mummy's house. Mycroft isn't quite sure why he elected to come here, because he has some terrible memories of being here. Today of all days, when Gregory still bears the bruises of those memories, it seems as though he shouldn't be here. But he wouldn't dream of abandoning his mother to her own memories on this day, so he swallows and forces himself through the door. 

"Mycroft, darling! Oh, and you brought that Detective Inspector friend of Sherlock's, too!"

"Hello again, Mrs. Holmes," Gregory greets as he takes her hand, placing a kiss lightly on it. "Pleasure to see you again."

"Oh, stop! Such a charmer!" Gregory winks at her. "Mycroft, I didn't realize you and the Detective Inspector were friends."

"Ah, no. He's my mate."

"Mycroft! You got bonded and didn't tell me?"

"It was rather sudden," Mycroft answers, scratching his neck awkwardly.

"No matter, you are now aware and we are celebrating your youngest son's birthday. Perhaps you can show me some pictures of the boys when the were younger?" Gregory suggests, looping his am though Mycroft's mother's.

"Of course! Mikey, can you check on the meal please?"

"My name is Mycroft!" he protests, but he does as he's told. He joins them after assuring that the cook has everything under control. They are sitting in the parlor, and Mycroft shudders as he stares into the fireplace he was once thrown into. He realizes his fingers are nervously tracing the silver burn scars, and he forces them to stop, folding his hands together. As though sensing his discomfort Gregory glances up and smiles at him, to which Mycroft grimaces back. "Pardon me, Mummy, I must be excused." He doesn't wait for a response before he positively flees.

"So tell me, Greg, how is Mycroft doing?"

"Oh, it's been nice living with him. He's fairly quiet, some days I forget he's there altogether."

"He always was, though it's hard to know how much of that was natural and how much because of his father. He was a despicable man, especially to my Mycroft."

"Yes, Sherlock has alluded to his childhood a few times," Greg agrees.

"Because of course Mycroft would never talk about that. He never did like to discuss his feelings. If I had only known what that man had done to him, the things he had planned for Sherlock...it's enough to make me sick. But you must have heard of similar things during your tenure as Detective Inspector. Still, I think it would be harder because Mycroft is your mate, as opposed to strangers that you just feel sorry for."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, what are we talking about?"

"His father. I think it's just despicable to want to sell off your son during his heat like he did. Mycroft was so sweet to take that for Sherlock, but that isn't something that any of my boys should have had to experience."

Greg hears blood roaring in his ears. "What?" is all he manages to gasp.

"Oh dear. He didn't tell you, did he? I thought you knew already. I think it's no wonder Mikey has all of these self-esteem issues, knowing that the first person who took his virginity, and every other person who had a heat with him after that, only wanted him because they couldn't have his brother. That's why I'm so glad he has you. You can show him what it's like to have a relationship with someone who loves YOU instead of someone who settles for you."

Greg has completely frozen, his mind reeling. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Holmes," he offers belatedly when he realizes his hands are shaking from pent-up rage, "I need to leave. I'll be back in a bit."

Mycroft comes running down the stairs as Greg vanishes out the door. "Mother, whatever happened?"

"Mycroft, I thought you had told Greg a bit of your history. You told me you had!"

"Indeed I did. A very condensed, watered-down version."

"Well, I thought he knew most everything."

"You told him about the fire?"

"I told him about your father selling you instead of selling Sherlock through your heats."

Mycroft can feel all the blood leech from his face. "I didn't know you knew about that," he mumbles very quietly.

"Why do you think I shot your father? He got drunk and bragged about what he'd done. I had no idea the things he had done to you. But Mycroft, why didn't you tell me? I could have left him!"

"No Mummy, you couldn't have. You weren't strong enough."

"No one should ever have to bear that burden alone, Mycroft. What your father did was illegal, cruel, abusive, and just plain wrong. That was sexual abuse."

"I know, Mummy."

"I love you so much, my dear boy," she tells him, beginning to tear up as she wraps her arms around him.

"I know that too," he whispers quietly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Never fear."  
.........................................................................  
As soon as Greg hits the front door he morphs into a wolf and tears across the yard. He pays no heed to where he's running, knowing his wolf will be able to guide him back eventually. He has the desire to rip and tear, to kill, and it needs to be assuaged now. There are people nearby, he can hear them, but they don't concern him. He can outrun them all very quickly.

Finally he is alone in a small forest. A doe walks out in the forest, ears tilting this way and that as she listens for predators like him. He is downwind and pounces while the advantage lies with him. She tries to shake him off, but he is relentless. A large paw snaps her neck, and she drops dead.

He morphs back into a human, feeling sick. It has not escaped his notice that his Mycroft, his mate, his Omega is very similar to this deer. Innocent and unable to protect itself, and the Alpha took advantage. Greg wishes he could take care of the Alphas that took advantage in the same way, and with as much ease, as the deer lying there. He turns back into a wolf, allowing his body to shift effortlessly. He still feels the desire to destroy, so he settles for mauling the deer carcass. At last he is satisfied, and the furious Alpha is tucked into a small area of his mind. He turns human again, knowing it is easier to sense Mycroft in his human form. 

Mycroft is anxious, Greg feels that as soon as he turns. He's nervous too, and a mirade of other emotions that Greg can't clearly identify because they all swirl together throughout his mind. He becomes a wolf once more, racing back across the forest and fields until he reaches his mate. It isn't difficult, this is what he was born for.

As he approaches the house, he can hear sounds of a struggle. "No, stop!" his Mycroft is shouting, and Greg races inside the house. What he sees makes him stop cold, and all his fury is brought to the forefront with a sudden snap again. A tall man is fighting with his mate, clearly trying to take advantage. Mycroft's shirt is half-unbuttoned, and he's struggling valiantly. Mycroft's mother is lying on the ground unconscious, a head wound bleeding copiously onto the beautiful carpet. "Stop it! I submitted to you in the past, but no more!" he argues.

"A b***h like you is only good for one thing, boy. Now take off your clothes like a good little Omega and present yourself for me."

Greg growls, and he can tell the exact moment Mycroft spots him. "Gregory!" he gasps.

Greg leaps on the man who dared to touch his Omega. He is dead as soon as Greg's claws hit him, but Greg doesn't stop until he has ripped the stranger from limb to limb. This man will pay for daring to hurt his mate, for abusing him while he was unaware, for taking advantage when he was vulnerable, and finally for trying to force himself on Mycroft when Mycroft clearly said no just now. There can be no forgiveness for that. 

He tears into bone, ligament, and tissue, ripping with ferocity. Arms wrap around him and he nearly snarls before the scent registers. Mycroft, his Mycroft, is holding him. His Mycroft has dared to drop to the floor with a rampaging wolf and wrapped his arms around Greg, holding him tight. Mycroft is shaking and Greg wants to revive the man so he can rip him apart all over again for reducing his mate to the trembling man that has his arms wrapped around him.

Greg turns back to a human and realizes what the wolf part of him had been too enraged to notice- Mycroft is going into heat. He wraps his arms around his mate, cradling him close like he's precious. "You're alright," he reassures him, "it's okay, I'm here."

"I thought you weren't coming," replies Mycroft. "I felt your anger."

"At your father," Greg replies, "not at you. Never at you, my darling."

"I didn't know," Mycroft says, and Greg breaks all over again. 

"I'm here, I promise. I'm right here."

A door opens somewhere in the house and Greg is back into a wolf, growling and snarling at whoever would dare to come in now. "Greg, it's me," Anthea says, walking into the room so Greg can see her clearly. "May I come in? I'd like to take a look at Mrs. Holmes." She has the sense not to attempt to approach her employer now, realizing that he was going into heat and that going close to him would be to challenge him for his mate. She keeps a respectful distance as she crosses to Mrs. Holmes. The woman is coming to, and Anthea helps her sit up and wash her face clean of the blood. As she works, she addresses Mycroft. "There's a car out front for the two of you. You need to go home."

"Thank you," the words are heartfelt, and within seconds he and Gregory are darting out the door. The car pulls away and they are gone.  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft's heat is coming on slower this time, which he considers a blessing. He nestles into the side of the wolf and begins to relax, knowing that he is safe with his mate. He dozes in a trance-like state until the car stops. Before he can move Gregory is carrying him inside, and Mycroft goes completely limp. "Gregory," he gasps as he is laid out on the bed.

His hands come up to begin undoing his tie, but Gregory stops him. "Gregory," Mycroft whines.

"Let me."

"I can do it quicker."

"Yes, you can. But I'm doing it."

Mycroft's hands come up again, and Gregory catches one, laying a kiss on it. "You can tuck these away, or I can tie them out of the way. Your choice."

Mycroft gives a full-body shudder as he moves, lying on his hands so he isn't tempted to help again. "I want-"

"I know, Mycroft."

"But-"

"Shhh. I'll give you what you want. Trust me, Mycroft."

He moans low in his throat. "Yes, Alpha."

Gregory slowly undoes the buttons of his shirt, and Mycroft is in agony. He wants to help, to peel off his clothes and allow their skin to meet. He has never before been undressed, and it bothers him. Gregory is going about it too slowly, and perhaps if he was going a bit faster Mycroft wouldn't be able to think of all that Gregory could see, but Gregory is going too slowly and Mycroft has plenty of time to consider the body that Gregory is peeling clothes off of. He can list every freckle, every ounce of fat that Mycroft hasn't yet managed to wipe away, and every ugly scar, and he wishes with a sudden jolt of agitation that Gregory would hurry up.

"It's okay," Gregory reassures him, running a hand up and down his stomach soothingly. Mycroft's stomach muscles quiver as he pulls in his gut. "Mycroft," Gregory chides.

"What?"

"Quit it. Don't pull in your stomach, stop agonizing over your scars, just stop. I'm trying to take care of you."

"Stop trying. I can take care of myself."

"You can, but you don't have to."

Mycroft ponders this, briefly aware of Gregory's hands which are skating up and down his arms. It's an odd idea, that he doesn't have to take care of himself. He has no idea what that entails, to not have to do everything. To be, even the slightest bit, dependent on someone else. Strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, because I am on a roll!


	10. The Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THIS CHAPTER! This chapter includes nondescriptive rape and child prostitution as well as a forced abortion.

Mycroft's second heat is very different from his first. He remembers everything that occurred and he wasn't surprised when he woke up to find Gregory still in his bed. It appeared that during the post-coital period the man became a cuddler; he snuggled close in the night and wrapped around Mycroft as though he was an octopus.

Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the silver-haired man. Asleep, Gregory looks almost childish, and Mycroft feels a rush of warmth. He cannot help remembering how Gregory had taken care of him- even feeding him at one point by hand- and tried to show him how it would be to be with someone who wants to be with you genuinely. It's an odd feeling, not one Mycroft had ever thought he would experience, yet Gregory had made it possible.

Mycroft leans forward, brushing a kiss to the top of Gregory's head. "Thank you," he whispers reverently.

"Mycroft?"

"Good morning, Gregory."

"How do you feel?"

Mycroft quickly takes stock. This is also not something he has experienced frequently, the novelty of being asked how he felt about something, so he needs to spend some time analyzing. "Cherished," he answers.

Gregory smiles that smile that makes Mycroft's insides twist. "That's lovely, but what I meant was, are you sore at all?"

"Only in the best of ways."

Mycroft feels the sudden jab of anticipation trough the bond and rolls his eyes. "No," he replies, swooping the blanket from his mate to go get dressed.

"You could drop the blanket you know. I've already seen you naked." Mycroft rolls his eyes where he is sure Gregory can't see, sliding his pants, then his trousers up his bottom with the blanket perched precariously around him. "Besides, you don't even know what I was going to say."

"I deduced it," Mycroft remarks as he picks out a shirt and pulls it on. "And the answer is no. We're not talking about it."

"We have to."

"No, we do not. There is no law that mandates we must talk about it."

"Mycroft."

"Gregory," Mycroft answers, rifling through his ties. He holds up three and rejects it before finally settling on a blue one. "Get dressed," he orders as he turns to find Gregory still lounging on the bed.

"Why? Does my naked body bother you?"

"I am quite unused to seeing men naked."

"We'll have to acclimate you," Gregory rebuts, posing on the bed.

"Stop it! Get dressed!" Mycroft protests.

"Only if you swear that we will discuss this."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft stomps over to his bedside table and rifles around until he finds a Bible. He slams it onto the table, placing his hand atop it. "I, Alexander Mycroft Chad Holmes, do hereby swear to tolerate any conversation which my mate deems necessary about my upbringing provided he first clothe himself. Happy now, Gregory? I swore it on the Bible."

"So many new questions: why do you have a Bible in your bedside drawer? Your full name is what?"

"Alexander Mycroft Chad Holmes. I hate it. So ordinary," he shudders. "The Bible was a moving present from Mummy. It brings her comfort to know I have it, though I'm not sure why because she has never been religious herself."

Gregory jumps up from the bed, crossing over to the dresser. He pulls out the drawer, rifling around until he finds the first shirt that looks unwrinkled. A quick sniff to confirm it doesn't smell and then he's yanking it over his head, jerking once or twice more to get out a few of the more stubborn wrinkles. A quick jump as he nearly falls, then his pants and trousers are up too. "C'mon, let's go get breakfast."

The cook has left several types of sliced fruits for them. Mycroft grabs a bowl, piling in the fruit. He considers getting a bowl for Gregory, but quickly abandons that idea because he is too hungry to wait on anyone else, even his mate. Gregory nudges him with his foot. "Don't think that just because your mouth is full, you are getting away from this conversation."

Mycroft frowns. "I swore on the Bible, Gregory. I intend to keep my word."

"I'm teasing, Mycroft."

As soon as they are finished, Gregory shoves his chair back from the table, throwing his feet up on the table. 

"Get your feet down, Gregory," Mycroft chides, slapping his mate's feet playfully for good measure. 

"I'm getting comfortable for our conversation," Gregory protests. 

"Wouldn't you prefer the couch?"

"Um, no," Gregory tosses back, throwing his feet up on the table and shuffling around like he's nestling in. 

"No? Not even on the leather couch?" Mycroft offers, referencing the ugly piece of furniture that he had brought in for Gregory's enjoyment. It was hideous and matched nothing in the place, but Gregory was happy, and that seemed to make Mycroft happy too.

"Dibs!" Gregory yells, bolting off the chair and sprinting for the couch. Mycroft chuckles to himself, wondering how long it will take before Gregory realizes he's been played. He wipes off the table then follows his mate at a more sedate pace, sitting onto the couch opposite Gregory. "I should start some tea."

"You're procrastinating, Mycroft!" Gregory calls as Mycroft begins to make the tea. He steels himself as the tea brews, readying himself for the conversation that is to come. It will require lots of digging into boxes in his Mind Palace that he tries to keep shut. Mycroft realizes with a start that the tea has brewed, and he prepares it then carries it out to Gregory.

"What do you wish to know?" he questions, positioning himself stiffly on the edge of his chair.

"I'd like more details on what your mother said. She mentioned you had been forced to sell yourself to save Sherlock. Tell me about that."

Mycroft takes a deep breath, opening boxes mentally. "He thought Sherlock would bring in lots of money, that's what he told me. I'm not sure why he felt that he even needed the money in the first place, he wasn't in debt at all. But he got drunk, he frequently was when I was a child, and he told me...he told me of his plans. Sherlock was young, and he was rambling on and on about how pretty he was, how people would pay such a good price for him...he was only eight. Just a child. I didn't...I couldn't allow...he was just a child."

He looks at Gregory, who nods encouragingly. "He said...he told me that he would...would fetch a nice price. Because he was a virgin. He hadn't hit his heat yet, only hit them when he turned seventeen and...he was just a child. I couldn't let him be sold. Please understand Gregory, it was never my desire to...I didn't want..."

He takes in a deep breath, letting the memories wash over him. "I didn't know...I didn't think that he would be able to...but apparently there are those who would take an Omega while he's not in heat. So I volunteered myself in his stead. Better him than me, I believed."

"How old were you at the time?"

"Fifteen," Mycroft answers.

"You were still just a child yourself," Gregory says.

Mycroft shrugs listlessly. "Yes. Yes I was. But I had already lost my virginity. The preparatory boarding school I attended was intended for Alphas, and an Omega turning up in their midst was not ideal. But I don't wish to talk about that. The first one...he wasn't...he didn't hurt me. One of the few. He didn't intend...he was just lonely. His wife had left him and he just wanted someone to...it was alright, because my heat had already come. Father allowed them to wait until my heat had come so I wasn't hurt unnecessarily. He was kind. He's the only one I left alive, well, him and the one I couldn't find. You took care of him for me. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Mycroft pauses again, trying to force the words out. "There were several others. They were not as kind. They hurt me. Some of these scars are from them," Mycroft tells him, tracing over an area where Gregory knows there is a long thin scar beneath his shirt. "But they paid well, and that was all Father cared about. As long as I was bringing in the money, he would keep Sherlock safe. If I...prostituted myself...he would keep my brother from following down the same path. So I learned to be good at my job. In the day I would study, learning everything I needed to get a job in the government and to, I hoped, one day get out of that house. In the night I learned to please Alphas, for happy Alphas lead to a happy Father, and when Father was happy that meant Sherlock was safe. Father had safeguards in place so that I wouldn't be bonded- mainly because he knew an Alpha mate wouldn't be pleased with their mate being sold- so I wasn't afraid of that."

"When I turned sixteen I became pregnant. I told Father and he was...very angry. He beat me until I was afraid I might die. When I woke up, I was in a cold clinic somewhere. Very impersonal, nobody was friendly. I was only sixteen, but they treated me like an adult. Informed me I had lost the baby...but I don't think I did. Gregory, I looked up that place later. It wasn't a hospital like I thought it was at the time. It was a clinic, Gregory. A clinic. I think...he ordered..." Mycroft falls silent as tears begin to fall. Gregory's hand moves to hold his, and when Mycroft can finally look up he sees Gregory has a sympathetic smile on his face.

"You don't have to finish."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I need to. No one else besides Father and I knew, you see. To tell you is to keep that baby's memory alive a bit longer. I had already been planning how I would be able to save up to raise the baby and myself. It wouldn't be safe with my father, I knew that instinctively, so I began to plot. When he...when I woke up and found out that my baby was dead...he killed my baby, Gregory. I know in my heart that he had his first grandchild murdered. That baby's life was cut short before it ever had the chance to live, and it was because I failed them!"

"I resolved to never again fail anyone I loved like that again. I figured out a way out. My clients were interested in hurting me, and I played that to my advantage. I allowed them to hurt me worse if they would pay me the extra money. No one ever reported me to my father, and so I began to raise money. By the time I was eighteen, three horrible years since I had first sold my body, I had enough money for a tiny flat in the city. It was hideous, falling apart, and the neighborhood was unsafe, but I didn't care. I had lost my fear of criminals and other riff-raff, you see, for when you stare death down like I did you grow to consider him a friend after a while. I took Sherlock with me and never looked back. Once I got into the government they realized how bright I was, and we were able to move to a safer neighborhood shortly thereafter."

"When Sherlock had the twins, I figured perhaps I should go see a doctor too. I knew I had had one child and lost them, and I was merely curious as to whether or not I would be able to have another. As it turns out, the people in that clinic had no idea what they were doing. I cannot have children, Gregory, and for that I am sorry, because you would be a marvelous father."

"I don't need children in order to feel fulfilled, Mycroft. You are a brave, brilliant man, do you know that? And stronger than anyone could ever know."

"There's one other thing you should probably know," Mycroft says. Seeing Gregory's look of anticipation, he explains, "I've never been kissed. It's odd, but that was the one thing I managed to keep intact. That's why I kicked you the other day. I thought...it was a flashback, I swear. I know that you would never hurt me like those other men did, but it was instinct to defend myself."

"No kidding, Mycroft," Gregory replies. "After all you've been through..."

"I am also bad being dependent, as you learned at the start of my heat. I like to be in control at all times. Ceding control to anyone for any reason is very hard for me."

"Alright. You're in charge from here on out," Gregory agrees easily.

"No!" Gregory sits back, looking surprised, which prompts Mycroft to add, "It's not that...I enjoyed...that is to say, it was nice. The lack of control. The...trust. It was just very difficult. There may be some days when the flashbacks are intense and I will be physically unable to let you take control as I did earlier. I would not be averse to trying to give up my control."

"Okay."

"I don't particularly enjoy being hurt. I would prefer not to be blindfolded because I like to know what's coming next. I know you said about tying me up, and I'm not really sure-"

"It was a joke Mycroft. I would never tie you up without explicit consent first. And a very long lengthy conversation to be sure you meant it and weren't agreeing because you wanted to please me."

"I am bad at that too. It's difficult for me to know what I enjoy because I was taught to enjoy pleasing others."

"We'll work through all that," Gregory answers. 

"Good. I trust you, Gregory, and that is very difficult for me to say."

"I can only imagine. Here, can I come onto the chair with you?"

Mycroft nods, and Gregory is moving. He pulls Mycroft up from the chair, sits down, and tugs Mycroft down onto his lap. Mycroft folds easily, curling his body around his mate. He has a brief flickering notion that he should be up, emailing his coworkers to let them know he will be back in the office tomorrow, and checking to see how the world has been coping without him. But that can all be done later, he assures himself. He relaxes further, allowing Gregory's fingers smoothing through his hair to soothe him. Within minutes he is asleep.


	11. Heat Suppressants

Gregory is at work when Sally comes knocking on his door. "Hey, do you have a minute?"

"Yeah sure, what's up? Come in, Sally."

She closes the door, shutting them both into his office. "I can't keep doing this, Greg. I have to get out of here. That murder today- I kept looking at that body and thinking that we needed Sherlock. I can't live like this, Greg. The guilt of his death, it's swallowing me alive. I need to transfer, effective immediately."

"Sally, it wasn't any of our faults," Greg says. "That's kinda the point of a suicide. No particular one person is to blame."

"You think I don't know that? But the fact of the matter is that I was cruel to him for years, Greg. I always called him a freak. And somehow that man found goodness in his heart that I didn't even think he had, and he made me his child's godmother. And I thanked him by reporting to that terrible investigator woman."

Greg frowns, knowing that a few words from him can ease Sally's suffering, but also understanding why he can't. "I thought you told me that he asked you to do that?"

"I thought he had a plan, Greg! I thought he was trying to do something, anything, but it really doesn't matter anymore, does it? He's dead, and it's largely because of me!"

"I could've done something too, Sally! That guilt eats me alive every day! I arrested him when I could've helped him hide or anything, really! It didn't matter, but now he's dead and it's my fault as much as it is anyone else's!"

"I can't live like this, Greg. Please, you need to give me a good word for a transfer to a different department."

"I'll do that. You've been a wonderful employee, Sally. How long have you been thinking about transferring?"

"For the past week, but you weren't here to talk to. Out with Sherlock's brother?"

"Yeah, his heat struck."

Sally crinkles her eyebrows at him. "That's really strange. I thought Sherlock's brother was an Alpha."

"No. He's ah- not."

"Guess he must have been taking heat suppressants," Sally says. "Hey listen, thanks for what you're doing. I really appreciate that you're willing to send me into a different department."

She turns to see Greg staring at her with a face almost completely drained of color. "What did you just say?"

"That I appreciate you."

"Before that. About Mycroft."

"Oh. He must've been on heat suppressants. Because I never smelled anything like an Omega on him, even faintly, and that smell of Omega in heat kinda clings to things for a while, ya know?"

"Yeah, I know," Greg agrees. Sally shuts the door with a smile at him, and Greg slumps in his chair. He finishes his paperwork quickly and heads out for the day. It's only an hour early, and he's racked in enough overtime lately that he doesn't think anyone will blink an eye at him being gone early. He heads for Mycroft's house with trepidation.

As he lets himself in the door, he mutters, "If I was Mycroft, where would my heat suppressants be?" The first answer that comes to him is in the bathroom, so Greg goes up there. He was just in here not two days ago for Mycroft's heat, and it's a shame he never thought to look at the medicines he might be taking. He pulls out five different pill bottles, yanking them open. He's not dumb enough to believe what the bottles tell him they are.

Four of the bottles are for some kind of aspirin/pain reliever, and one for an indigestion reliever. The fifth one has strange writing on it. Greg flips the bottle open, staring anxiously at the pill in his hand. It could be a heat suppressant pill. Maybe. He can't know for sure, but he knows someone who can.

"Hello, Greg! Back to check on the results of the autopsy?" Molly greets as he enters her lab.

"No, I wanted to ask for a personal favor."

"Okay, good. I was going to leave for a coffee, but you can go get it for me and we can consider that to be payment for whatever personal thing you need."

Greg smiles. "Yeah, sure," he answers. He troops off dutifully to grab the coffee Molly requested. When he returns, Molly has the corpse she was working on covered up again. 

"You're an angel," she tells him with a peck to his cheek, taking the coffee. "What do you need?"

"I'd like to get this analyzed. I'm thinking it might be a heat suppressant, but I'd like to be sure."

She nods, taking the pill from him. "I should have your answer soon," she tells him. Within a few minutes she has the answer for him. "Yeah, so you do have a heat suppressant here. Did you need to...talk about this at all?"

"No thanks, I'm good," he answers politely. "Thanks, Molly. Do you need any more coffee?"

"Nah. Thank you."

Greg nods and heads out of the lab. He isn't paying much attention on the way back, but soon he is at Mycroft's house and letting himself through the front door. He sits in a chair, contemplating what to do now.  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft walks through the door, dropping his head. It has been a long day, and he is tired. There is food somewhere in this house, and he needs to find it. There may possibly be some biscuits in the pantry. He sets off to check, jumping when the light clicks on. "Oh, hello, Gregory."

"Mycroft, sit down please."

"In a minute. I am in desperate need of some sugar if I am expected to do anything other than go to sleep."

"No, now please," Gregory orders.

"In a minute," Mycroft calls, bypassing his mate. He rifles through the pantry, crowing when he finds a large piece of chocolate cake. He is fairly certain that he ordered Anthea to quit buying this cake, but he is so glad that she didn't listen. He eats quickly, washing the plate before he returns to his mate. "What is the matter?"

"What are these?" Gregory questions. He tosses a pill bottle at Mycroft, and Mycroft catches it on reflex. 

"Oh. These were...in my cabinets upstairs. Did you rifle through my cabinets?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. What are these?"

"Glucose tablets," Mycroft answers smoothly. There is no twitch of his face to give away the truth. 

"Mycroft, I'm not completely stupid," Gregory reprimands. "I had these tested by Molly Hooper. They're not glucose tablets, they're heat suppressants," he offers evenly.

Time for a change of strategy. Mycroft glances down at the pill bottle in his hand, feigning shock. "Oh, so it is! Yes, these are my heat suppressants. I was looking at the wrong bottle."

"Mmmhmmm," Gregory drawls, "sure you were. You can deduce everything except what's in a pill bottle that you own?"

"I'm tired," Mycroft offers tersely. 

"Why did you stop taking these? We just went through a heat together."

"Does it matter?" Mycroft questions.

"Yes, it does," Gregory replies. "So?"

"I'm tired. We're not talking about this right now. I'm going to bed."

"Mycroft, I need to understand."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I raped you!"

Mycroft is fairly certain his eyebrows have hit the ceiling, he arches them so high. "I'm sorry?"

"If we slept together during your heat, and you didn't want to, then that is considered rape!"

"Are we remembering two different scenarios? I seem to recall begging for you."

"Hormones do not equal consent, Mycroft."

"Are we speaking in code now? What you're speaking about doesn't make sense."

"You asked for me in the midst of your heat. That doesn't count as anything other than being raped, if you did not want it."

"I wanted it," Mycroft defends. "Why are we arguing about this?"

"Because you took heat suppressants and never told me."

"I was unaware you needed to know about that too."

Gregory huffs. "Mycroft, why did you stop taking these?"

"I'm trying to do the right thing here, and you are making it very difficult," Mycroft argues. "I stopped taking them for two reasons. Number one, I have an Alpha. It would be the height of impropriety to take heat suppressants when I have an Alpha."

Gregory groans. "That is not what I wanted to hear."

"The second reason is because I wanted to remember it. I have never in all my life not remembered the events of a heat, up until the one that we bonded. I remembered being raped by classmates and prostituted by my father, I can recall all that vividly because I can't delete it- and believe me I have tried- but I cannot remember what happened during the heat that I got bonded. And I wanted to. I wanted to know what it was like to be with someone who wanted to be with me. If you're angry about that, then I'm sorry I upset you, but I'm not sorry that I went off those suppressants."

Gregory's face softens, and Mycroft has the feeling that he said the right thing, though he's not exactly sure which thing he said was right. Gregory steps closer and slots his body so his arms are wrapped around Mycroft and his entire front is plastered to Mycroft, though it doesn't feel like there's anything sexual intended in the gesture. "What are you doing?" Mycroft questions, voice a bit higher than it was a few minutes ago.

"Hugging you, Mycroft. Do you need me to let go?"

Mycroft takes stock of it. Having Gregory this close makes him anxious because he's not sure what's expected of him. "Perhaps," he offers, and Gregory steps back promptly. Mycroft's body is immediately berefit, begging for the Detective Inspector to come back. "No, wait," Mycroft says, and he steps forward again. Gregory's arms wrap around him, his chin coming to rest on Mycroft's shoulder. His mate is radiating contentedness, and Mycroft relaxes a tiny bit. "How long do we stay like this?" he asks.

"For as long as we want."

Mycroft yawns. It feels like his jaw nearly cracks with the effort, and he frowns. "I don't think I'll last much longer."

He can feel Gregory's smile against his throat. "That's alright. I'll carry you." Before Mycroft can issue an argument he is being lifted and carried up the stairs. 

"Gregory!" Mycroft's voice comes out shrill as he shrieks, "Put me down now!"

"I've got you, Mycroft," Gregory answers. "Just relax."

Mycroft tries, but he doesn't like being carried. As soon as he hits the bed he nearly falls asleep, and he spares a second to wonder what he should do about Gregory. "Would you like to stay?" he slurs as Gregory unlaces his shoes for him. Mycroft feels guilty but the feeling is soon washed away under the haze of fatigue. He is certain his Alpha should not be servicing him like this, rather, he should be up taking care of Gregory.

"No thanks," Gregory answers softly. "I honestly think that would scare you more when you wake up in the morning."

"Perhaps," Mycroft agrees tiredly.

"Go to sleep, Mycroft," Gregory orders. A light kiss is dropped on Mycroft's forehead, and he is asleep before the door closes behind his mate on his way out the door.


	12. Halloween Party

Chapter Twelve: Halloween Party  
After that conversation about the heat suppressants, the changes in Mycroft's and Greg's relationship fizzled out. Mycroft began working longer hours. He wasn't home frequently, and he continued taking his heat suppressants. He never discussed it with Greg, and Greg didn't feel it was his place to ask, so everything kind of stagnated. When Mycroft was home he hardly spoke, he would eat and sleep and get right back up and go to work. Greg was left with the distinct feeling of having done something wrong without actually knowing what it was he did.

One night, he sends Mycroft a text. 'Work is having a Halloween party. Be my +1? -GL'

'Yes of course. I would be rather offended if you asked someone else. -MH'

'I'll handle costumes. -GL'

'Fine. My break is over, I'll speak with you about this later. -MH'

Mycroft kept true to his promise, which surprised Greg a bit. In the evening he comes home and makes a valiant attempt to stay awake long enough to agree to attending the party and leaving Greg completely in charge of costumes. He falls asleep on the couch halfway through, but Greg counts it as a victory because it is the most words Mycroft has said to him for probably the last month. He sends a quick text to Anthea letting her know to pencil the party into Mycroft's schedule, and that he will need Mycroft's clothing size. Anthea responds back quickly, and Greg has everything he needs.

He already has a costume in mind, it is simply a matter of finding the right materials for them both. He considers going to a consignment shop of some sort, but he knows that Mycroft will probably have a stroke if he learns he's wearing clothes someone else wore. So instead, on his next day off he troops around London on a mission to find the perfect Halloween outfit.

Days pass, and on the night before the Halloween party Mycroft comes home early and falls asleep for seventeen hours. "Sorry, Gregory," he says when he wakes the day of the party. "Work has been very chaotic lately."

"Yeah, I noticed," Greg quips.

Mycroft does a subtle deduction, and Greg smiles to let him know he's been caught. "Ready to see the costume I picked?"

Mycroft nods resolutely and marches off like a man facing death row. He stares at the outfit in horror. "What is this?"

"It's what the common man, whose suits do not come from Savile Row, would refer to as plaid and jeans," Greg explains, allowing a bit of teasing to work its way into his voice. 

Mycroft shoots him a withering look. "I am aware of what plaid looks like, Gregory. I do not understand why I am wearing it."

"We're matching. You'll see in a minute." Greg hands him the outfit. "Go get changed."

Mycroft comes out in a moment, looking huffy and slightly uncomfortable. "Must I wear the necklace?"

"It's part of the outfit."

Mycroft puts it on, though Greg can tell from the set of his mouth that he's unhappy. Greg, who isn't as concerned about privacy, strips his clothes off right there and changes. "What are you? What are you wearing? It's not plaid."

"It's called a trenchcoat, Mycroft."

"It's hideous."

"Oi! Shut it, you! You can pick the costumes next time!"

"To summarize: I am standing here in jeans, a black t-shirt, a red plaid shirt, and a leather jacket wearing a necklace and I am not allowed to complain?" 

"Correct. Your character is totally bada** though, no need to whine."

"I'm not whining," Mycroft pouts. "And you are wearing a white shirt, blue tie, and trenchcoat. What are we?"

"We're Destiel."

"Is that a code for something?"

"You know, from Supernatural?"

Mycroft huffs again. "No Gregory, I do not know. What does that mean?"

"We are from a popular American TV show. You are playing Dean Winchester. Your character has a brother named Sam, and they hunt demons and other supernatural creatures, that's the reason why the show has it's name. I'm Castiel. Around season four, Castiel is an angel of the Lord that shows up to help Sam and Dean. But everybody thinks that he's majorly in love with Dean, including the actors themselves. They have a name for their relationship, it's called Destiel because it's a pairing of their names together. Basically, they're a couple without actually being a couple, and that's what we're going to be."

"Who's going to be Sam?"

"We don't have a Sam, there's only two of us."

"Very good," Mycroft replies. He walks off, and Greg loses him for the next three hours. When he finds Mycroft again, he discovers that the man has dyed his hair a bit and drawn on a five o'clock shadow with makeup. "How does this look? I watched a few episodes from the show, and this seems close to the character."

"Yeah, that looks great! So you watched a few episodes? What did you think?"

"Terrifying. I shall not be making that mistake again. But I needed to understand the motivation for my character, and I pray the few episodes I watched have helped give me insight into that. By the way, you should perhaps dye your hair too. Castiel is not gray, though he does have gray wings. Do you have wings tucked somewhere into this ensemble?"

"No, but I've made myself a fake angel blade."

Mycroft cocks his head to the side, adorably confused. "I do not believe the episodes I watched covered an angel blade."

"It's a blade to kill angels," Greg answers, and Mycroft pins him with a 'no duh' look. "You should dye your hair now," is all he says.

Greg does as he's told, and within moments they are setting off for the party together. "Am I required to interact with goldfish?" Mycroft asks as they walk through the door.

"A little bit would be nice."

"I do not get paid enough for this," Mycroft protests grumpily. He pastes a fake smile on his face, smiling politely at everyone who glances his way. 

"Mr. Holmes, look at you!" They both turn to see Sally coming near them, smiling at Mycroft. "So you did get him talked into being Dean?" she observes. 

"Yeah, I think he nearly stroked when I handed him the plaid though," Greg reports with a fond smile at Mycroft.

"I am standing right here," Mycroft argues, "and I did not nearly stroke. My blood pressure did not get that high."

Greg grins. Mycroft turns to Sally, offering his hand. "Hello," he drawls in an American accent. "I do not believe we've had the pleasure to meet before. I'm Dean Winchester. And who are you?"

Sally gives her hand, and he kisses it. "I'm Susan Pevensie from 'The Chronicles of Narnia.'"

"I don't know of 'The Chronicles of Narnia,'" Mycroft as Dean answers, "but I do make it my business to know beautiful women. Will you dance with me?"

Sally glances over at Greg, who nods with a smirk on his face. Mycroft sweeps her off into a waltz, and Sally, who Greg knows for sure does not waltz, looks beautiful as they twirl together. Greg gets stuck talking with Dimmock, and he looks up in a few songs to realize he's lost Mycroft. Nearly as soon as he realizes that, there is a voice at his ear purring as hands move down his chest. "Hey, Cas, havin' fun?"

Greg smoothly steps out of his mate's grasp, grabbing his hands so he's still close. "Dean, we didn't dance in Heaven. But I'm sure I could be convinced to learn."

"What will it take?" Mycroft as Dean questions quizzically.

Greg pauses. He isn't sure if he should ask for something that Castiel would want, or that he, Greg, would want. "I'm sure I'll think of something," he answers coyly.

Mycroft grabs his hand and leads him onto the floor. They dance close so that there is hardly any space between them, and Mycroft slides his hand onto Greg's shoulders. "How am I doing, playing Dean?"

"I'm very impressed," Greg answers honestly.

"This is why I'm good at what I do," Mycroft says lightly.

"Because you look wonderful in jeans, plaid, and leather?" Greg suggests, which makes a genuine smile play across Mycroft's face. 

"No, because I'm good at becoming whoever I need to be. I used to be good at disguises."

"Well for the record, I think you're still good at disguises."

"Thank you, Cas," Mycroft says. He grins again, though he turns it into Greg's shoulders this time so that no one can see it.

"Did you want to leave?" Greg asks. "I know you don't really like these things."

"Dean enjoys them," Mycroft answers. 

"That's not an answer to the question." 

"I am fine, Gregory, thank you for your concern. I find I am enjoying this more than I thought."

Greg steers them over to the bar. "Do you want a drink?"

"No, thank you. I try not to drink, it can lead to disaster on the job."

"Oh! Do you want me not to drink?"

"Drink something. Really. I don't care. Enjoy yourself, Cas. Drink the entire liquor store if you want."

"And what will you be doing?"

Mycroft shrugs, looking unsure but playing like he doesn't. "I'll uh, be over here." He disappears into the crowd without a backward glance.

Greg orders a drink from the bartender, throwing it back as he watches the area where his mate vanished. "Get me another one?" he asks the bartender politely, and the man, who has known Greg from several other parties, smiles and nods, then hands him another. Greg tosses that one back too. The hands are on him again, and Greg smiles, relaxing back into it. "Change your mind, babe?" The pet name slips out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he turns to apologize to Mycroft. The words die on his throat.

"Hey, Greg. I've missed you." Greg stares at his ex-wife in shock and horror. She yanks his mouth down to hers, kissing him fiercely. After a moment, his brain clicks on and he shoves her away, feeling sick. 

"What are you doing here?" he demands. "We're divorced! You can't just-"

"I came with one of the new detectives. He was sweet, but he's not you. I saw you standing there, and I remembered how good we were together."

"We can't!" Greg argues vehemently. "I'm a whole other person. I'm in love with somebody else!" It's the first time he's ever said those words aloud about Mycroft, but they feel right and so he soldiers on. "We can't be together any more."

"Greg however serious you are about this new person, I really doubt that they can compete with our fifteen years of marriage. We've got a lot of history together."

"I'm living a new life with someone else."

"Greg-"

"No, listen. I've found my Perfect Match. I can't abandon him, for whatever reason. Even if I could though, I still wouldn't go back to you. We divorced because you were cheating on me. That wouldn't change. You said it would, we tried, and we failed again. It's a vicious cycle for us, and one that I've finally managed to stop by walking away from. The fact that you're here doesn't entice me to jump into that cycle again."

"That was cruel, Greg, even for you."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, but it's the truth. Our past is in the past." He offers her a brittle wounded smile. "See you around." He shoves past her and sets off to find Mycroft, hoping he can convince the man to leave.

"Hey, Sally, have you seen Mycroft?"

"Yeah, he left. His face was really pale and he looked like he'd seen a ghost."

Greg can think of one reason why Mycroft might look like that, and it worries him. "S**T!" he proclaims loudly, darting out the door to look for his mate. Mycroft isn't in view, but that doesn't stop Greg from shouting his name until he grows hoarse. He texts Anthea but she doesn't answer him. In desperation, he flags down a taxi and goes back to Mycroft's house, but the house is empty and it's fairly obvious Mycroft hasn't come home at any point. Greg growls low in his throat, pacing angrily. If his ex-wife has cost him this relationship too, it might just be better to completely swear of being with someone. Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean outfit for Mycroft: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/35465915790030287/ the first picture  
> Castiel outfit for Greg: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/148970700157005584/ the first picture again
> 
> Inspired by: that one comment by Basementtrol on chapter 9 "Go Greg, you vengeful angel you", and Nightmare_creeper25's love of Supernatural. I couldn't resist adding this into the story. :D


	13. Heartbreak

To say Mycroft Holmes is angry would be an understatement. He has just watched his mate kiss another woman- in fact, said mate's cheating ex-wife. Mycroft replays the night, trying to pinpoint an instance in which everything went wrong. He cannot see a single thing, barring Gregory's sudden indiscretion. He and Gregory had appeared as a couple, and he had had fun playing someone that he didn't normally, a strange character by the name of Dean Winchester. He liked playing Dean, loved the look on Gregory's face when he used his American accent, and enjoyed immensely channeling the flirtatious mood of the character to flirt with Gregory in a manner that he, Mycroft, would not be comfortable doing. But then Gregory had decided to go off and neck his ex-wife, and if Gregory had absolutely no standards than that was fine but he certainly didn't need to drag Mycroft down with him.

Mycroft had been of the opinion that what they had was special. Now he felt like a fool. He had behaved like a child, allowing his imagination to run away with him. He believed that he had fallen for Gregory, and that Gregory had fallen for him too. He had made the mistake of thinking that just because they were mates meant that Gregory was his. Seeing him kiss his ex-wife sent home a very important message- Gregory wasn't his. He never would be, he never could be. It was like waiting for rain in the middle of a drought: useless and disappointing. 

Caring wasn't an advantage, Mycroft had been taught that throughout his life. The lesson had begun when Sherlock's dog Redbeard had been killed and Mycroft had been thrown into the flames at his childhood home, and continued on throughout most of his life. Caring wasn't an advantage, and now Mycroft held the reason why in the center of his Mind Palace. It wasn't an advantage because it would shatter you. Better to pretend you didn't care, that you were sculpted of ice, than to let a man with silver hair and a silver tongue worm his way into your heart.

Mycroft escaped to 221B, because he knew that Gregory wouldn't think to look for him there. He texted Anthea to let her know his whereabouts, and to demand that she not give information to Gregory. He told her the story and she sided with him as he had known in his heart that she would. She came to 221B and sat with him, not speaking as he sat trying to figure out what to do.

His mind ran rampant with crazy ideas on how to get revenge. Throwing all of Gregory's things out into the street, murder, laxatives in his coffee, burning all of Gregory's things, culturing an STD and somehow giving it to Gregory...well, that was highly impractical and too much legwork, so that was out, but everything else was still on the table.

Anthea's phone chimes, and she twists it to read the message. Her jaw sets and Mycroft knows that it is Gregory. Her fingers tap angrily at the screen and she hits send with a flourish. Wordlessly, Mycroft holds out his hand for the phone, and she passes it to him. 'Anthea, is Mycroft with you?'

'Yes.'

'Where are you two? I need to talk to him.'

Mycroft sends back his own answer. 'He doesn't want to speak to you or hear from you ever again.'

'Anthea, please, help me out here. This isn't what he thinks.'

Mycroft doesn't answer. He hands the phone back to Anthea, and she doesn't respond either. "He's a silver-tongued liar," Mycroft tells Anthea.

She nods.

"My first date was really terrible."

She nods again, pursing her lips together. Mycroft knows her well enough to know this means she has things to say but is keeping quiet out of respect to him.

He sighs and stands up. "I'm going to bed. You can stay if you desire, or you can leave. I don't care which one."

"I'll stay. I'll be on the couch if you need me."

Mycroft troops off to Sherlock's room, kicking off his shoes and snuggling beneath the blanket that smells like a comforting mixture of John and Sherlock both. He falls asleep yearning for a conversation with his brother.

In the morning, Mycroft is slightly more calm. He's still upset, but he's rational enough to realize that a retaliation will not help him feel better in the long run. He resolves to just go to work and forget all about it, locking it away into yet another box in his Mind Palace. This strategy is successful for the next two weeks, and Mycroft puts both the incident and the Alpha behind him.

It has been another long day for Mycroft Holmes, and he is tired yet again. The United States had another presidential election coming up soon, and Mycroft had been working tirelessly to ensure that his candidate was elected. It would be easier to have Obama again because he already understood how to deal with England, and Mycroft quite frankly wasn't interested in training someone else. Most of his month had been helping with campaigning, which required lots of legwork and was exhausting. Mycroft retires to the Diogenes club.

He opens the door of his office to find Gregory seated in his chair. Mycroft freezes, then whirls around and hurries back out the door. He has the fleeting thought that out in the foyer they cannot talk, so he will hide out there until Gregory grows bored and decides to leave. Because Mycroft is flustered, he forgets one key aspect of that plan: Gregory is not aware of the rule of silence.

"Mycroft Holmes, you come back in here and talk to me like a man!" Gregory orders. 

Mycroft moves, smirking as he realizes he doesn't have to listen to Gregory. Not now, not ever again. 

He hears Gregory run up behind him and reacts before his logical brain can catch up with him. As Gregory reaches out to him, Mycroft's hand flies up and catches Gregory's wrist, twisting. A loud pop echoes in the silence of the room, and everyone sitting out in the front gawks at them. Mycroft spins, staring at Gregory with undisguised horror. 

"Did you just dislocate my wrist?!"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, signaling one of his guards to chloroform Gregory. The guard hands him a rag after he signs for it himself, taking it and plastering it against Gregory's face. Gregory's eyes roll back into his head and he slumps to the ground, Mycroft catching him before he can hit the ground completely. The guards step forward, but their hands reaching out cause Mycroft to snarl at them. They both withdraw again, and he hefts Gregory over his shoulder and carries him into his office.

As Gregory comes to, Mycroft is staring pensively at him. "Did you just chloroform me?!"

"That would be an accurate assessment of recent events, yes."

Gregory frowns. "Where have you been?"

"Work."

Gregory glares at him. "You haven't been home in two weeks, and you're telling me you've been at work this whole time? Never came home? I don't believe you."

"Quite frankly, I don't care what you do or don't believe. You are dismissed." He dismisses his ex-mate with a wave of his hand, turning to the paper he wanted to read before Gregory had made himself at home in his office chair.

"You are so stubborn sometimes, anyone ever tell you that?"

The question strikes a nerve, and Mycroft stares up at Gregory with fury in his eyes. "I'm not the one who stubbornly returned to my cheating ex-wife, that..." the slur he wants to use is one that was slung at him several times by the men who purchased him, and he hurls it at Gregory now, "that knot-hungry whore. If you wanted to kiss someone that bad, that's fine. I don't want you to feel obligated to me because of a mark that we share. If you want to be with her, that's fine, but you cannot have us both."

Gregory is giving him a look of utmost confusion now. "I didn't kiss my ex-wife!"

"I SAW YOU!" Mycroft yells. "I WATCHED YOU KISS HER!" He has rarely yelled at anyone, but he cannot deal with this any longer. He needs to cut his ties with his ex-mate and move on. 

"I DIDN'T KISS HER, I PUSHED HER AWAY!" Gregory screams back.

Mycroft stops. "What?"

"I pushed her away when she kissed me. I told her," Gregory takes a deep breath and soldiers on, "I told her that I was in love with you."

Mycroft snarls at him. "Don't say things you don't mean."

"I mean it. I love you."

To Mycroft, this is the worst torture of all. "Stop it! Let me alone! You get out of my office, and out of my life!" Mycroft is leaning over his desk as he yells this last part.

"No."

Mycroft blinks in surprise. "What did you just say?"

"I said no."

"You don't get to tell me no. I'm Mycroft Holmes, 'no' is not an answer I accept!"

"Well, start learning it, babe," Gregory sasses back.

Mycroft growls at him. "Let me alone!"

"No."

Mycroft snarls and springs from his office chair. Gregory must be dealt with when he is calm, when he has a semblance of control over himself. Currently he lacks control. He stalks from his office, mutely aware of Gregory following him like a shadow. He ignores him.

There is tea that a butler has prepared, and Mycroft glides over to him, preparing the tea for himself. A tiny jolt of guilt and he is preparing one for Gregory too, shoving it at his mate without looking at him. "Mycr-" Gregory begins, and Mycroft's hand flies up to his mouth, plastering over it. He holds a finger to his lips. 

There is a wet swipe across his hand and Mycroft releases Gregory with a flourish, jumping back as he realizes that the man has licked him. His face twists in disgust and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the saliva from it. Mycroft turns back to him and begins to sign something to him. 

Gregory has finally gotten that he must be silent, because he mimes that Mycroft needs to stop like a referee calling an out at a game. He approaches the desk, grabs a piece of paper and a writing utensil, and turns back to Mycroft. 'I DON'T KNOW SIGN LANGUAGE!' is scrawled in Gregory's hardly-legible chicken scratch.

Mycroft frowns, and then he gestures that Gregory should return to his office. Gregory nods, waiting for Mycroft to follow him. Instead, he sits in a chair, tapping his watch and holding up a hand to indicate he will return in five minutes. Gregory growls, but Mycroft waves him off, and he goes reluctantly.

Once he is alone, Mycroft pulls up the security feed of the place Gregory's party was held. It is grainy but he can find Gregory and his ex-wife. He sees the woman grab his Gregory from behind, realizes with horror that his Gregory was probably believing that she was Mycroft because he never sees Gregory's nose twitch to catch the scent. He sees her spin him around and kiss him, and sees himself leaving the bar with a heartbroken expression. As his back is turned he sees Gregory push his ex-wife away, a rapid exchange of words, and then sees Gregory speak to Donovan and run out, lips already forming Mycroft's own name.

Mycroft sits back, staring at the screen like it holds all the secrets of life. So then, Gregory was telling the truth.


	14. A Second First Date

Mycroft walks back into his office, and Greg leaps to his feet. "Mycroft," he begins, but then he stops. He doesn't know what to say. His arms itch to hold his mate, but he holds back, knowing that if Mycroft believes he was cheating there is no way he will want held.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft declares to Greg's shoes. "I didn't realize...I overreacted. I watched the video, you did shove her away."

"I'm sorry too," Greg replies, "I wish I would've checked to be sure it was you through our bond before I let that woman touch me."

A hint of a smile hits Mycroft's mouth for just a moment. "I could kill her, if you wish. We would never have this problem again."

"Somehow, I don't think that's the magical solution."

Mycroft shrugs. "Just a suggestion." He moves back behind his desk and sits, steepling his fingers. "Perhaps I should have made my assessment of the evening clear as well. I was under the impression that I was on my first date."

Greg doesn't know why it never occurred to him that Mycroft had probably never been on a date before, but it strikes him as sad. His mate has never had anybody take him out? To clarify, he asks, "You've never gone out with anybody? Movie, restaurant, coffee, beer, none of it?"

"People actually go out for coffee?"

This makes Greg smile. Mycroft is so self-assured that Greg sometimes (often) forgets how naive he can be. "Yes. Yes, they do."

"Sounds hopelessly dull," Mycroft answers, and the answer is so Sherlock that Greg smiles again.

"Well, your first date definitely sucked, then. How about a second, to make up for it?"

"I suppose that wouldn't be too terrible. Where would we go?"

"I don't know. I'll plan it though, and I'll let you know."

Greg's phone rings and he ducks out for a moment. When he comes back in, it's only to excuse himself to the newest crime scene. "Are we okay, am I forgiven?" Greg asks.

"I believe so, Gregory. I am sorry I...over-reacted."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Fine, you did," Greg concedes. "But I don't blame you for it. Will you be home tonight?"

"Doubtful. Now go to your crime scene, Gregory. Begone with you." He does that dismissal wave again, and Greg leaves.

A second later, the door swings open again. "Hey, handsome, I love you."

"Go!" Mycroft commands, and the door closes and stays closed this time. "No, you don't," Mycroft whispers quietly in the silence of the room. "Neither of us know what love truly is."  
.........................................................................  
That same week, it's a Friday and Mycroft is preparing for his date, three hours early. "Anthea, what do I wear?" he questions, on his phone as he looks through his closet. "The restaurant he's taking me to is nothing similar to any of the ones I frequent, and I'm not sure what the dress code is!" He listens for a moment, then replies, "No, I don't think so." Another pause. "Yes, alright, I'll phone the driver. I'll be around shortly."

He phones his driver and picks up Anthea. The store they go to has the kind of clothes that Mycroft would never consider wearing, but he will wear them happily for a date with Gregory. Afterward, if necessary, he can burn them.  
.........................................................................  
It's about fifteen minutes from their date, and Dimmock pops into the office with a smirk on his face. "Something handsome this way comes," he teases Greg.

"S**t! I spilled coffee on my shirt this morning, I was going to go home and get a new one! What is he doing here?"

"I didn't ask."

"I didn't plan on him coming to work, I thought we'd leave from home!"

"Well, he's here now."

"Go stop him, and get Sally and Phil in here pronto."

Dimmock does as he's told, and Sally and Phil are slipping into Greg's office soon. "Come help me sneak out the back window," he orders his friends. 

"What? Greg, why?" Sally demands.

"I dressed up nice for Mycroft today, we're going out." It's true, he's dressed a lot nicer than he normally would be, actually wearing a suit for once, and it had been a slow day. The only problem was the coffee stain on the light blue shirt. "And I spilled coffee on my shirt. So, I need to change, and I don't have a change of clothes."

"Here, switch shirts with me," Anderson volunteers. "Now, Greg!" he orders, seeing Greg is gaping at him. Within seconds, the two of them have switched shirts. It's a slight bit long on Greg, but you can't really tell with the suit jacket. Sally pulls men's cologne out of her pocket.

"Why-" Greg begins, but Sally pins him with a look.

"Don't ask, don't tell. Wear this." She sprays it on him. Then she grabs some gel off his desk and spikes his hair. "There, you look great, now go!"

Donovan and Anderson grab Greg and physically shove him out of his own office, shutting the door so he can't escape back in.

"He's hopeless," Phil remarks jokingly.

"Hopelessly in love," Sally counters, and Anderson nods in agreement.

"Want to go watch them?" he asks.

Sally grins. "You read my mind."

The two of them exit Greg's office, spotting their superior and his mate in the center of the hall. Mycroft is dressed in a button-down and dark jeans, and he has forgone a tie. It's the most dressed-down Sally has ever seen him, and she chuckles quietly. "He dressed down for Greg, and Greg dressed up for him," she informs Phil quietly. 

"So long as Mycroft doesn't hate my cologne, I really don't think he looks like he cares that they're dressed differently." It's true. Mycroft's eyes are nearly shining as he looks at his mate. He reaches out to take Greg's hand, looking a bit unsure, but Greg ducks and kisses his hand like an old-fashioned gentleman. Mycroft retracts his hand immediately, a blush creeping up his cheeks. 

Greg offers his hand this time, and Mycroft accepts. He tucks their hands together and sweeps his mate from the office toward their waiting car.

"They're so cute," Sally remarks. "I've never seen Mycroft blush like that."

"We never could've had that," Anderson replies quietly. "I'm sorry. You deserve that, and it was wrong of me to try and give you a watered-down version, especially since I have a wife."

"We've been down this road, and we're not going down it again. You're forgiven, now stop talking about it."

"Yes, ma'am," Anderson mockingly salutes, and Sally screeches.

"Oh, you will pay for that one!"

She begins chasing him around the hall, laughing the whole time.  
.........................................................................  
Mycroft had felt a sinking feeling somewhere in his stomach when Detective Inspector Dimmock had first stopped him within New Scotland Yard. He had the terrible idea that Gregory had forgotten, or thought it over and decided he didn't want to be seen in public with Mycroft. Then Mycroft saw him.

He was dressed in a suit, and wearing a tie. It was nothing as intricate as Mycroft's own suits, but Gregory had dressed up for him. "What do you think?" he had asked, spreading his arms. 

"You look-" Mycroft searches for a word and applies it to the situation "dazzling."

Gregory's answering smile was even more dazzling. "Thanks. You look amazing. I've never seen you wear jeans before."

"They're not mine."

"Really? Well I hope you didn't rob a store, otherwise I'd have to arrest you rather than take you out." Gregory practically growls.

"No! I mean, I guess they are mine. Anthea and I bought them but I don't know what I could do with them," Mycroft stutters awkwardly.

Gregory chuckles. "I could think of a few things. Wearing them again, for one. I like them. But I like you too, so maybe I'm biased." 

Mycroft tentatively offers his hand to Gregory, and he bends and kisses it like a knight of old. "Ready to go?" Mycroft retracts his hand, blushing furiously and cursing his ginger hair for allowing his blushes to be so obvious.

"Certainly." Gregory takes his hand this time, smiling at him.

Now they are in a restaurant. It's small and quaint, but the waitresses are friendly. They don't serve anything for the people who diet, like Mycroft himself, except for a salad. Mycroft orders it, sans dressing.

"Mycroft, you don't have to eat those cute-sy little Omega meals," Gregory says after the waitress walked away. "You could eat anything you want."

"I prefer the salad," Mycroft replies. 

"Oh, okay. No big deal. Just figured I'd throw it out there."

They eat, and Mycroft doesn't say anything basically the entire time. He's so frantic with worry about conversing with Gregory during this second first date that he's not sure what to say, so he just doesn't say anything. He could flirt. Wait, no he couldn't- he wasn't Dean Winchester! He was Mycroft Holmes, and Mycroft Holmes didn't know how to flirt!

Greg feels like this whole thing was a bust, really. Mycroft appears to have frozen, simply eating mechanically without saying a word. Greg had planned a movie yet too, but it wasn't looking like this was going well, so maybe they should cancel it. He digs within his brain for a conversation starter.

"So, do you like any kind of sports?"

'Really, Greg?' he chides himself. 'You've lived with him for how long, of course you know he doesn't like sports!'

"I've been known to enjoy cricket on occasion," Mycroft replies. 

"Oh." The conversation flatlines again because Mycroft and Greg can apparently not talk to each other. At all. 

"Would you want to split a dessert?" Greg offers.

"Hmm? No thanks."

The waitress brings the check, and Mycroft reaches for it. Without thinking about it, Greg reaches over and delivers a sharp rap to his fingers with the fork. Mycroft looks at him with reproach, and Greg instantly realizes what he did."Oh my god I'm so sorry! I didn't-"

Mycroft begins to laugh. "Did you just smack my hands with a fork?"

"You're laughing?" Greg questions in response.

"It's so novel. People respect me for my position. Not you, though. Why did you rap my fingers with a fork? Was it something related to the check?"

Greg blushes scarlet. "Yeah, um, I just figured I'd pay," Greg says. "I was the one who set up this date, after all."

"Oh! Is that standard, that you'd pay after setting up a date?"

"Little bit, yeah."

"Oh. Then I shall be in charge of the next date," Mycroft orders as they exit the restaurant. It's a nice day out, so they decide to walk instead of getting into Mycroft's car.

Greg stops abruptly. "You want to go on a second date?"

"I'm sorry, do you not wish to go on a second date? I have no wish to impose my ideas on you."

"Well I do, but like, you enjoyed the date?"

"Yes. I am supposed to, aren't I?"

"Yeah you were definitely supposed to have a good time. I just didn't think you did, because you hardly said anything."

"Sorry, I didn't know what to say. I'm not too good with flirting."

"What about conversation?"

"No, I'm not too good with that either. I'm more used to listening to other people talk."

"But you wanted to go out again?"

"Yes. As it turns out this may have been a terrible second first date, too, I am coming to realize. Therefore, I believe the only reliable course of action to fix this issue is to schedule a third first date."

Greg laughs. "Oh, do you think so? Well then, we'd better do it."

"I'll be in charge this time, of planning and payment," volunteers Mycroft.

"Sure," Greg agrees, bumping his hip into Mycroft's. "C'mon, date, lets go home."


	15. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to all of my wonderful readers for the long time in between updates. Unfortunately work and school decided to get busy at the same time so I had no time to write.

*Nearly two years later*

"Gregory," Mycroft whispers, leaning over his mate.

"Mmmfff?" Gregory questions, and Mycroft nearly feels guilty, having woken Gregory from a dead sleep. However, if anything goes wrong, if he doesn't come back to his mate, he would regret it forever.

He nearly says, 'I love you' but the words get stuck in his throat. "I'm getting ready to leave. I wanted to say good-bye."

Gregory blinks awake, sitting up and brushing his hair to the side. "How long will you be gone?"

"It's hard to say for sure. If possible, I may be back some point within the next two days."

Gregory wipes the sleep out of his eyes. "Mmkay, I love you," he says easily.

Mycroft tries again. "I...I love you too."

"Yeah?" Gregory replies, his eyes having shut again. "Good."

It's clear he's tired, because this is the first time that Gregory has ever been told that Mycroft loves him. He starts snoring, and Mycroft smiles in the darkness of Gregory's room. He brushes a kiss against Gregory's forehead, trying not to think that this may be the last time. He knows that Sherlock and John are in trouble, John had called him from Serbia. Then they had lost connection. That's where Mycroft was going. It was a long-shot that would save him and the children, but it was worth the fight.

Mycroft's jet arrived in Serbia, and he spent the rest of the time speaking to people. He spoke with everyone in Serbian, finally being able to locate his brother around evening. The men liked to brag about the beautiful Omega they had captured, along with his Alpha mate and children. "We should keep them together," one of the men said, "Make some beautiful babies, like the ones that they've already got. When the children get just a bit older, we can have them have nice babies too." Everyone chuckles at this, and Mycroft laughs too and vows to kill all of these people who are threatening his niece and nephew, his brother and his almost-brother-in-law.

Finally, he is taken to the room where Sherlock is. People are whipping him, but Mycroft wants to get them alone. Knowing his brother, he won't have long to wait. Sure enough, within minutes Mycroft is left alone with his brother due to a deduction about his attacker's wife having an affair.

"So, my friend, now it's just you and me," Mycroft drawls in Serbian as he approaches his little brother. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."  
.........................................................................  
*An Outsider's Perspective*  
I am searching for Sherlock Holmes. I know he's here somewhere, and I'm looking frantically for him. There is no telling what these people will try, what they are capable of. The Serbs have long been respected for their viciousness, and I know that left to his own devices, Sherlock and his small family will wind up dead before long.

Vicious gunfire is heard, and I follow the trail down toward the basement. Where there is gunfire, there is most likely Sherlock.

Several people stumble out of a room into the hallway. I jump back to let them pass. The first man out I recognize. He has taken pains to disguise himself, donning a long jacket and an ugly fur hat. If I were speaking to him, I would tell him that that hat does not go with the rest of his outfit. Or his face. Or...anything really. But I am not speaking with Big Brother. I heft the gun that was strapped to my side and consider shooting him. Unfortunately, the honor of killing him is not to be mine. That honor is to go to my mate. I put the gun up and let Big Brother pass by unharmed. It will not happen again, I vow quietly to him.

The second man out I recognize too. The younger brother, the famous one, the Consulting Detective. He is supposed to be dead, but I am pleased that he is not. My mate and I have plans for him too. I let him pass without reservations. The younger one is not the problem.

"Mycroft, where's John?"

Big Brother leads them to a cell and kicks open the door. The Alpha wolf that I recognize to be John Watson, the younger brother's touchingly-loyal mate stumbles out, though he quickly morphs into a human and latches onto his mate like a leech. "Sherlock!" 

"Come, John, we must leave immediately!" Mycroft snaps, and I rethink the idea of shooting him for interrupting when they are reuniting. I know that my mate will be furious if I do it, so I quench the urge.

"Going somewhere?" I hear an angry voice question in Serbian. The Serbian man is completely unremarkable, except for the fact that he holds the two youngest Holmes' shackles in his hands. I stare at the children. I knew that they existed, but I have never seen them in person. They look like small angels, with the Consulting Detective's curly hair and the blond hair of his Alpha. I like them instantly.

Big Brother hefts his gun, but the man laughs at him. "I wouldn't. I will shoot them."

Mycroft Holmes is fast, but in this moment I am faster. My gun explodes, and the bullet plants itself into the man's head. John and Sherlock stumble together, latching onto their children like they are grubby octopuses. Mycroft alone spins to look for who put that bullet into the enemy's skull, but I have melted into the shadows. It's where I am used to, and even his sharp eyes don't catch me. I am darkness. I am the night. I am...quoting Batman.

I shake off my stupidity and heft my gun. It is quite probable that they will need my help again. I laugh quietly to myself as they stomp off. If only they knew who just saved the lives of their precious little children, their sweet little angels.

I follow them, shooting without punity until I have seen them all get onto the jet. The jet goes roaring off into the air, and I rest easy knowing that the Consulting Detective and his family are safe for now.  
.........................................................................  
It is quite late by the time they finally get back to England. Mycroft has his own personal doctor look over John, Sherlock, and the children at 221B. Both men are severely injured, and the children are completely unharmed. "Don't worry," Sherlock jokes, "I already had some scars before this."

"Brother Mine," Mycroft reprimands.

"I got shot, this is nothing," John says lightly. "No big deal." He turns and looks around, as though noting something very important for the first time. "Where is Greg?"

"I didn't want him to be involved," Mycroft responds truthfully.

Sherlock looks sharply at his brother. "How is our Detective Inspector nowadays, Mycroft?"

A faint smile just barely turns up Mycroft's lips, and Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at John. "He's doing well," Mycroft replies easily. He abruptly holds eye contact with his brother. "He told me he loved me." Sherlock grins.

"Did you say it back?" John asks curiously.

"I tried. This morning. He was already asleep again by the time I got the words out."

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock says, falling into his chair.

"Perhaps not. But loving him is." He looks shocked at the words that just flew out of his mouth, but he doesn't make a move to take them back. He switches topics quickly before he can say anything else about this. "In the morning you should go see him. It has been exactly two years since you faked your deaths, he is to give a press conference before reporters about your deaths. They cleared you of all charges of framing Moriarty in the past two years. Also you should be forewarned that Gregory's coworker is on to you. Philip Anderson believes that you are both still alive, though his theories are ridiculous. Gregory shoots him down daily."

"My god, we've come back to a different universe! Anderson is intelligent- or at least not as stupid as I once believed."

Michael toddles over then, one fist in his mouth and the other tugging a blue blanket behind him. " 'Cle MyMy, up!" he demands imperiously, holding his little arms up to Mycroft.

"They talk?" Mycroft queries incredulously after acquiescing to the boy's demands. He holds his nephew close, feeling the boy burrow into his neck. He drifts off.

"Michael does. Zyana doesn't," John answers, with a fond smile to his oldest who is sleeping in his arms. "We think she's just a bit shy. Michael talks enough for the both of them."

Mycroft relaxes into the couch, allowing his muscles to go lax. Now that the children are not babies he is not nearly so terrified to hold them. They walk and talk, and for all intents and purposes they are mini-adults. Adults are something Mycroft knows how to deal with. Plus, they are similar to Sherlock, and Mycroft helped to raise him. He is at ease with the tiny human in his arms. 

He hears John saying something, and is vaguely aware of Mrs. Hudson coming into the room and fussing over Sherlock and John. Someone takes Michael from him, and his arms move restlessly until the baby is tucked back into his grasp. He drifts off, holding his nephew close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...who was the outsider perspective? Any guesses? ;)


	16. The Triumphant Return

Greg got ready for work with a heavy heart. Normally he didn't like to focus on Sherlock's death, or "death", but today that would be all he would do. It was exactly two years since Sherlock and John had faked their deaths, and the press had decided to do a conference with him in a 'Remembering Sherlock Holmes' reminiscence article. In Greg's personal opinion, they were all trying to atone for their supposed guilt of not having supported him and having him take a flying leap off a building. Kinda similar to Sally, the press was. 

It had been two years, and they had heard little about Sherlock, John, Michael, and Zyana in that time. Mycroft would maintain that no news was good news every time he asked if there was an update, but Greg would have felt more at ease to know something, to have heard anything to tell them how they were doing. He wondered if they had teeth yet, and if they had learned to talk. He wondered sometimes if they had learned to walk, and if Sherlock had the sense to keep his experiments away from the children. He thought about whether or not Sherlock remembered to feed himself on a regular basis, or if John had to always remind him. He worried about John, and thought about him and Sherlock out there together taking on the evil of the world. He imagined how big Moriarty's network was, and he worried about them. Constantly. They were his family, would be even without Mycroft, and he didn't like this radio silence. He itched to be out there helping to bring down Moriarty's network, but supposedly he was doing more good here, hosting a stupid event in honor of Sherlock and John's fake deaths. 

It would be nice to have Mycroft with him today. It was always nice to have Mycroft with him, though he still didn't talk too much. But Mycroft had swanned off to some unknown location, which was fine, except for the fact that Greg was nervous about all the memories today would bring up. He and Mycroft alone knew that the Holmes' family was still alive, and sometimes it was good to have Mycroft remind him of that fact. But that just wasn't in the cards today.

Greg holds his speech cards, reviewing them, but the words start to swim before his eyes and he gives up before he gets very far. He tucks them into his jacket in defeat. "Boss, you ready?" Phil questions, and Lestrade nods in mute reply. No, he will never be ready, but he needs to do this. He is one of them who knew Sherlock best, it is better to have him give this interview.

Greg steps out before the press and sits at the table they have arranged for him. He slides his cards out, takes a deep breath, and begins. "On this date, exactly two years ago, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson killed themselves."

That is the farthest he gets before his phone goes off in his pocket. He ignores it, thinking it's probably just Mycroft texting to check in with him. Beside him, Anderson pulls out his phone. It is only when Greg looks out to the audience and realizes that every person there is checking their phone that he realizes he wasn't the only one to have gotten a text right now. "It says, 'wrong,'" Anderson reports.

Greg's blood freezes. He remembers this happening one other time, how Sherlock Holmes had managed to take control of a press conference while in an airplane. But if it isn't Sherlock, then that means that someone else knows that he is alive, and the Holmes' family is in grave danger. 

Greg clears his throat and continues. "Two years ago Sherlock Holmes jumped off the top of Bart's Hospital and his mate John killed himself in the aftermath."

'Wrong!' chimes all the phones again.

"Sir, it says, 'Wrong!'," one of the press members calls out.

"Yes, just ignore it," he replies. "Anyway, as I was saying-"

" 'Cle Geg!" Any words Greg had planned to say die in his throat at that small voice. He recognizes the small boy running toward him, though it's been years since he's seen him: Michael Gabriel, his and Mycroft's namesake. Behind him toddles Zyana determinedly. Greg's heart leaps into his throat and he jumps from his chair. He falls to one knee, holding out his arms as both Zyana and Michael run into his arms.

"What are you guys doing here? Did Uncle Sebastian bring you for a visit?"

"Daddy! Papa!" Michael yells, gesturing behind him. Greg turns around and spots Anderson gaping at a tall figure. Greg stands up, holding both children, and looks into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. "You-" he can't think of an appropriate term to call the man, considering he is holding children. "I would punch you, but fortunately for you my arms are full."

"I can take them," John volunteers cheerfully. Greg is vaguely aware of the press muttering in the background, but he ignores them all. He lunges at John, hugging him though he still hasn't left go of the twins. There is a loud clicking of cameras, and more as he hugs Sherlock.

"How- Mycroft," he breathes, and Sherlock nods.

He turns to the press and leans into the microphone Greg had been using. "We will reschedule this press conference sometime in the near future. Thank you all for attending today." He strides off, grabbing Greg and John and ushering them into the back.

"I knew it!" Anderson exclaims. "I told you so!"

"I knew too. But I had to lie." He turns to John. "The network, its dismantled?"

"There's one loose string, but we know where they are and how to keep them under control."

"Welcome back!"

Sherlock spins around, searching the room. He turns back to Greg looking confused. "Where is Sally?"

"She's not a part of my team any more. She couldn't deal with the guilt she felt after your death, even though you encouraged her to turn against you."

"Well then we should rectify that." 

Before he's aware of what's happening Greg is agreeing to watch the kids, taking them back to Mycroft's house so Sherlock and John can go see Sally. Anderson knows that she's on a date, and where it is, so it's not difficult to find her. Greg unloads the kids from the car and lets them into the house. Mycroft's look of horror as the children come into the house reminds him that he never called to verify with his mate.

"Sorry," he mouths. Then, aloud, "I'll ask the cook about dinner. I'm thinking hotdogs?"

Mycroft shudders as Greg sets off.

Greg confirms his selection with the cook and comes back to find Mycroft standing in the center of the room. Somewhere he has produced a rubber ball and is tossing it, crying "Fetch!"

"Mycroft, what are you doing?"

"Playing with the children. I deleted caring for children, but realistically speaking it can't be that different from caring for that dog of Sherlock's."

"Michael, fetch!" Mycroft orders. Michael stares at his uncle in confusion.

"Mycroft, the kids aren't dogs. They're not going to fetch the ball for you."

"Then what is that game for children where you throw the ball?"

"Catch?"

"Alright then, we'll play that."

"Mycroft, they're too young to catch a ball well."

"Then what do I do with them? I'm not good at this!"

"You just need some help is all, and that's what you've got me for." He turns to address Michael. "Michael, can you get the ball for Uncle Greg?"

Michael toddles off and comes back with the ball. "'Cle Geg!" he exclaims, offering the ball proudly.

"So he'll fetch for you and not for me," Mycroft mutters quietly. "It's clear who his favorite is."

Greg rolls his eyes good-naturedly at his mate. "Zyana, can you go sit next to Uncle Mycroft?"

She does so, and Greg helps arrange their feet so they're all connected at the ends, just barely touching. "Now we just roll the ball, like this," he demonstrates, rolling the ball toward Zyana's lap. They pass it back and forth, and this miraculously holds the children's attention until dinner.

Dinner is a quiet affair, and once it is over Greg realizes Zyana is rubbing her eyes tiredly. "Are you sleepy, sweetie?" he asks.

She nods in response, thumb creeping into her mouth.

Greg crouches down and holds out his arms. "Do you wanna come to Uncle Greg?"

Zyana shakes her head no. Instead, she walks over to Mycroft and smacks his leg until he looks down at her. He is sitting on his chair in front of the fire (which has a gate in front of it thankfully so the children won't be hurt) reading, but at the small smacks he looks down to his niece. Zyana holds her arms up imperiously, and Greg has a sudden vision of a tiny raven-haired boy doing that to a much younger Mycroft. 

Mycroft is apparently thinking something similar, because his face softens and he leans down to pick up his niece. He tucks her into his side and she snuggles into him, snuffling into his chest for a moment until she gets comfortable. She is asleep within minutes.

Greg smiles at him tenderly. In moments like this, he thinks that Mycroft would be a good father.

Reality intrudes harshly, and Greg's body goes white-hot with anger as he remembers that Mycroft cannot have children because of his no-good father. He feels his body trembling, the wolf seconds away. With huge effort he reigns himself in.

Mycroft is looking at him, concerned. He can feel that concern for him radiating over the bond, as well as the confusion over what caused it. He can feel uncertainty.

"Gregory, if you'd rather take her..." Mycroft begins, shifting his body to get out of the chair.

"No, it's not that," Greg replies, realizing that Mycroft believes he is upset that Zyana chose Mycroft over him. "She can always choose who she wants to be with without fear of upsetting me. I was just thinking."

He sits down across from Mycroft, slanting his body so he can watch Michael, who is currently rolling the ball back and forth to himself.

"Must have been quite a thought," Mycroft quips.

"It was," Greg replies, digging deep within himself for a smile to offer Mycroft. He finds one and plasters it to his face, though from the way Mycroft is looking at him it does nothing to reassure him. "I just had a thought...that you would be a great father."

"Did you want that? We could look into adoption. Or a surrogate."

"Mycroft, no. I don't need a child in order for my life to be complete. I just wish it was an option, that's all, because quite honestly I think you'd be great at it."

"I treat babies like they are dogs. I would be terrible."

Greg manages a real smile this time. "Yeah, but that was pretty funny."

"It was not!"

"Yes it was!"

A lengthy pause. "It was, wasn't it?"

Greg looks at Mycroft through his lashes. "Do you even want kids?"

"Well, no. But if that's something you're interested in..."

"I'm not."

"Thank God," Mycroft breathes out quietly. Zyana blinks awake, rubbing at her eyes still. She reaches up and puts a single finger against Mycroft's lips, her message clear: Shut up, Uncle Mycroft.

Greg slumps forward in the chair, grabbing Michael as he passes by with the ball again. "Okay, little man, bedtime," Greg says, tucking the child into his arms. Within seconds he and Michael are snoring in tandem. 

Zyana giggles quietly, nudging Mycroft with her elbow. He smiles too. "We should go to sleep," he whispers. She nods, pats his arm one more time, and they drift off too.

"What an adorably tender moment." Greg jerks awake, reaching for a gun that's not attached to him. At the last moment he realizes he is holding Michael still and readjusts his grip before the toddler falls.

"Sherlock?" he questions, snapping on the light beside him.

"Yes, Graham. I forgot exactly how stupid you are." Greg rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking closer at Sherlock. "You're hurt."

"Sally packs a punch," is all that is offered in response.

Greg chuckles, picturing Sally indignantly jumping across the restaurant to punch Sherlock. "Yes, it happened exactly like that," Sherlock says, laughing too.

"She hugged me though," John brags. "Didn't know we were that close."

"I hate you sometimes you know," Sherlock tells him.

"No, you don't," John argues, and Sherlock smirks.

"It's an expression, John. It makes me seem more human. Remember, you told me that in Chicago."

"Yes, I remember," John answers.

"Alright, I hate to ask, but can you guys just take your kids and leave?" Greg asks. "I'd like to sleep."

"You are so demanding," Sherlock says imperiously, but he takes Michael from Gregory's arms. 

John reaches for Zyana, but she snuggles further into Mycroft, whimpering quietly. "Hey baby girl, come to Papa." She reaches out for him finally, waving goodbye to Mycroft as John holds her to his shoulder.

Mycroft waves back. Within moments he is falling asleep again, before he even leaves his chair. His neck twists to the side, and Greg smiles fondly at him. "I should get him upstairs before he gets a kink in his neck. Feel free to let yourselves out." He nods to Sherlock and John, going over to hug them both one last time. He drops a kiss to both of the children's foreheads, then turns to Mycroft. He hears the click of the lock, and realizes his pocket feels suspiciously lighter. He reaches into his pocket and laughs as he realizes his warrant card has gone missing again. "B*****d," he mumbles fondly.

Mycroft wakes the second Greg touches him, though not much. "Gregory?" his voice is slurred and he sounds confused.

"Shhh, go back to sleep. It's just me."

"I know." His regal head slumps to the side, and he is snoring again instantaneously.

Greg smiles again. "I love you," he whispers to Mycroft's sleeping form. He leans down to kiss Mycroft's forehead, lingering for a moment in the scent of his mate. He helps to pick up his mate, carrying him upstairs into his bed.

Mycroft grabs Greg's wrist when he tries to leave. "Stay."

Greg laughs. "You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No. But I enjoyed you carrying me, so I acted like I was. Does that bother you?"

"That you like me to carry you? No. But you could've said something."

"No, I couldn't have. I'm Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes doesn't say things like 'I like my mate to carry me,' or even, 'I like the way my mate smells.'"

"Then maybe we should find someone else to ask," Greg suggests sarcastically.

"I shall phone someone in the morning," Mycroft replies.

"You are utterly ridiculous."

"I am, but you love me anyway."

"I do," Greg agrees.

"I am high on serotonin. And dopamine. Ignore me. I should not be allowed to watch children."

"I like you when you're high on serotonin and dopamine."

Mycroft sighs contentedly. "I am going to sleep now. You should hold me."

"Oh I should, should I?" Greg replies, wrapping his arms around Mycroft despite his words. He cuddles into Mycroft, ignoring the little voice telling him that Mycroft will not be pleased with this in the morning. Instead, he relies on the Alpha side of him that is pleased that Mycroft has chosen to sleep in the same bed with him for the first time in two years outside of his heats. Perhaps they have finally turned a corner in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the shortness of the last chapter, this one and the next are both fairly long. Hope this makes up for my accidental hiatus!
> 
> If anyone's wondering, Sally responded to Sherlock's resurrection basically the same way John did in canon.


	17. Mary, Marry

In the morning Greg has a case that he knows Sherlock will love and he sets off for 221B with a huge smile on his face. He jogs up the stairs and knocks on the door. "Come in!" John calls, and Greg enters.

There is John sitting in his chair, and a strange blonde woman standing next to him. 

"Hey, Greg. Case?"

"Yeah," Greg answers, staring unabashedly at the stranger. 

"Thank God. Thought he was going to climb the walls."

"Oh, so you don't have a client?" Greg asks, with yet another curious glance at the woman.

"No, this is Mary Morstan."

"Oh right, Mary!" There is a pause as Greg thinks this over. "Who's Mary?"

"Remember when I said there was one loose thread in the Moriarty network? Mary is that loose thread. We used to be friends back before I went into the Army, so thankfully she doesn't want to kill me. And her and Sherlock seem to get on well, so here she is," he says.

Greg doesn't know how to answer that, and as he's floundering for a response Sherlock comes bounding up the stairs, balancing groceries and the twins. Greg grabs for the children before Sherlock can lose his tenuous grip on them. "Ah, Lestrade. Do you have a case?"

"Yeah, if you could look over the files for me, that'd be great."

"Files? No, it's been two years, I am going to the scene.Let me just grab the children..."

"YOU ARE NOT TAKING OUR CHILDREN TO A CRIME SCENE!"

"BUT JOHN, HOW WILL THEY GAIN ANY APPRECIATION FOR THE WORK?"

Lestrade rolls his eyes. There's no good way to tell Sherlock that this isn't the case he wants, it's one from Mycroft, so there is no dead body or scene to look over. He'll just let his friends argue it out and explain that later. Although it would be handy to have his help with the "Skeleton Mystery" as the press was dubbing it. And he had brought the file...

"Lestrade," Sherlock snaps, and Lestrade realizes the argument has passed and he has no idea who has won. "The file."

Lestrade passes it over reluctantly, and Sherlock flips it open and releases a low growl. "Boring. Tell Mycroft to keep his overly-large nose out of my cases. Where is the one you are running?"

"It's a terrorist attack," John says, reading over the file. 

"Still boring. Your file, Lestrade?" 

Lestrade hands that one over too, and allows Sherlock to peruse it. "Take me to the body!" Sherlock orders. Lestrade places the children on the floor and tells them to play, and they scamper off obediently. 'Huh, perhaps not too much like Sherlock, then.'

Sherlock meanwhile has apparently decided that an hour away from John is more than he is capable of withstanding. He is draped around John like a feather boa, kissing John like it is the end of the world. Lestrade looks away awkwardly, kicking his feet. They'll be done soon, and then they can leave. He glances over and realizes Sherlock is in the process of removing John's shirt. 'Okay, enough.' He clears his throat loudly. "Whenever you two are done," he calls, and they break apart.

"What's the matter, Greg, never seen two men kiss before?" John teases.

"Or perhaps he's just never seen a man shirtless. I can't imagine that's a normal state of affairs for Mycroft," Sherlock remarks.

"Are we going or aren't we?" Lestrade redirects peevishly.

"Like you've never kissed Mycroft like that before," John continues, not willing to let the conversation pass.

"That is none of your business!" he snaps.

"Mycroft hasn't kissed him yet, though he has seen him shirtless during the two heats that they've shared together," Sherlock supplies for John. 

"What? It's been two years!" John answers incredulously.

"Still none of your business!"

"What are you waiting for?" John asks, though he looks at Sherlock like he expects the answer to come from him.

"I'll be outside, whenever you're ready Sherlock," Greg answers, stomping off. There is no need to reveal his private life to strangers, especially strangers who wanted to kill Sherlock and John. He leans against the car tiredly, and Sherlock joins him a moment later. 

"I'm sorry for that display," Sherlock offers. "Mary used to have a crush on John. Still has a bit of a latent one, though she denies it admirably. She propositioned him once and he turned her down. I'm simply reinforcing that he is taken."

"I think the entire block got the message," Lestrade remarks angrily.

Sherlock gives him a look but doesn't answer, flagging down a cab. When they are both settled in and heading to the most recent body, Sherlock asks, "Why hasn't he kissed you yet?"

Lestrade fingers the handle, contemplating a leap into traffic. "None of your business. Again. Stop asking about it."

"Should I talk to him about it?"

"No, you should not!"

"But-"

"Not another word, or you're not going to the crime scene!"

Sherlock huffs. "Fine," he acquiesces grumpily. 

Sherlock leaps from the taxi before it has even stopped, leaving Greg to pay and roll his eyes at his stupid idea of taking a taxi to be near Sherlock. No more of that; two years should not have been enough for him to forget his more cruel personality types.

"Taxi," Sherlock bellows, sprinting back up from the scene. 

"Sherlock, what? You've solved it already!"

"It's fake! Take me back to 221B!" Sherlock demands of the cab driver.

"Wait, what? What do you mean, it's fake?"

"Ask Molly! I'm going back to John!" Sherlock yells out the window as the cab drives off.

Anderson jogs up to Greg. "Apparently the crime scene is fake," he tells Greg.

"So I was just informed."

"It's good to have him back, isn't it?" Greg shoots Anderson an incredulous look but follows him back in to the fake crime scene that they had thought was real. He gets Molly on the phone, confirms that the skeleton is one from Bart's, and wraps up the case quickly- if a bit moodily  
..........................................................................  
Mycroft is just starting lunch when he gets a text from John. 'Hey, it's John. Can I come talk to you?'

'Diogenes Club. -MH' is Mycroft's response.

A few minutes later John is being shown back to Mycroft's office. Mycroft peruses him quickly. John is nervous, though about what he cannot say. 'Please do not ask me to look after the children,' Mycroft thinks.

"I had something I wanted to ask you about, and if you don't mind I'd appreciate it if you could keep this discussion between the two of us."

"I am not in the habit of keeping anything from my little brother, much less the fact that his mate has been to visit me."

"You won't have to keep it a secret for long. Just, please, Mycroft?"

The fact that John is begging intrigues Mycroft. "What is it?"

John immediately drops eye contact and begins kicking his feet. "Well I was thinking...see your brother...and we're spending our lives together, so there's really no point, but at the same time we're choosing this, so there is, and it's a public declaration, you know what I mean?"

Mycroft replays that in his mind, trying to see what he's missed. "No, I do not know what you mean."

John takes a deep breath and looks up at Mycroft. "I want to marry your brother."

Mycroft's entire world rocks to a halt. He had never even expected that Sherlock would have a mate, because it seemed that he and Sherlock were similar and he had once given up hope on a mate for himself. Plus Sherlock was much more cruel with his deductions, announcing them like an advertising billboard, and people didn't like him so Mycroft had never believed there would be a mate. Once he met John he had been shocked but pleased. And now John wished to marry his little brother.

"You have already mated, and had children, why get married?" he questions, genuinely curious.

"We didn't choose to be mates. But if he agrees to this, then this is something that we did choose to do together. Being mated wasn't a choice, it was something we had to do, but this, this is something we don't have to do. I want to, though. I want to stand before the world and announce that I love your brother, that I've made that decision to stick by him for the rest of our lives. I want that if he wants it too."

"Why ask me?"

John smiles a bit. "It's tradition to ask the father, did you know that? Only, I really couldn't care if your father would give permission or not. I want your opinion, because you're the man that raised Sherlock, you're more his father than that man who died that contributed his DNA to Sherlock. So, I came to ask you. Mycroft Holmes, may I ask for your brother's hand in marriage?"

"I would be honored to have you as a member of my family," Mycroft answers sincerely. He takes a bite of his sandwich and looks back up. "What are you still doing here?"

"I-"

"Go ask him! Go! And have him call me immediately!"  
.........................................................................  
Sherlock calls a few hours later. "Mycroft, you'll never believe what happened!"

Mycroft smirks to himself. "Tell me."

"John proposed!"

"Really?"

A long silence. "You already knew? Put Lestrade on the phone."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft tries, but he is cut off.

"Put your mate on the phone."

Reluctantly Mycroft passes off the phone. 

"Hey, its Greg...WHAT? CONGRATULATIONS!...so how did he ask?" Gregory laughs. "That suits your relationship. Of course. Uh-huh. Okay. Yep. He doesn't want that. No he doesn't. Sherlock!" A pause. "Oh, shut up! Yeah, I'll talk to you later. Uh-huh. Bye Sherlock."

Mycroft is ready to pounce the instant Gregory hangs up the phone. "How did John ask?"

"Its really cute- hang on, why didn't he tell you?"

Mycroft shrugs. "He's angry because I knew John was going to propose."

"What? Did you deduce it?" Gregory demands, leaning forward in interest. 

"Sadly, no. John came to the Diogenes club today to ask my permission."

Mycroft's phone rings, and Mycroft excuses himself to pick it up."Holmes."

"Hey, Mycroft." Mycroft's mouth twists and he goes to hang up the phone. "Don't hang up." The click is loud in Sherlock's ear, and he sighs angrily. Then he slams his hand on the door. "Mycroft! Open this door!" Mycroft ignores him, deciding to head upstairs and get ready for bed. Sherlock will have to let him alone then.

Lestrade is the one who swings the door open. "Oh, hey, Sherlock. Congratulations again. Can I see your ring?"

"In a moment. Where is my brother?"

"Oh, I don't know, he went upstairs."

Sherlock elbows past Lestrade, racing up the stairs. Greg races up after him. "Mycroft!" Sherlock bellows as he throws open the door to Mycroft's bedroom.

Mycroft swears. "I'm naked! Get out!" Sherlock is bodily thrown out of the room, and he rebounds off the wall.

"For God's sake, I'm trying to apologize!"

"By barging in on me naked?"

"By coming here! Why must you be such a goldfish?"

"Perhaps my brain has been completely short-circuited by the idea that my younger brother has barged into my room without knocking!"

"I did it all the time before!"

"When we were children!" Mycroft counters, yanking on his robe and tying it with an angry flourish. 

"For what it is worth, I'm sorry," Sherlock offers. 

"You should be! You should never, ever see me naked!"

"Not for that! I'm sorry for not giving you the opportunity to talk to me about John's proposal. I didn't know he had asked your permission!"

Mycroft folds his arms. His anger is radiating off of him in waves, and Lestrade wisely decides to back down the stairs again. "It doesn't matter. Why should I care about your proposal?"

"But I want you to hear about it," Sherlock protests, "because only you will be able to understand how exciting John's proposal was to me."

"I do not care," Mycroft snaps, trying to hide the hurt from his face.

"Caring is not an advantage!" Sherlock retorts. "Now that we've resolved that bit of ridiculousness, can you talk to me instead of standing here like a statue?"

"There is nothing statuesque about me."

"Not unless people wanted to make a statue of Saint Nicholas."

Mycroft laughs. "You are a selfish egotistical brat."

"And you are a maniacal power-hungry dictator."

"Tell me about your proposal."

"John got a new phone for the day. He started messaging me hints. For a while I thought perhaps it was Moriarty back from the grave. But his hints were leading me back to the scene of 'A Study in Pink.' Do you remember that case? It was right when we came back from Afghanistan when John was injured."

"Of course I remember," Mycroft allows a faint smile to touch his mouth as reminiscence hits him. "It was the first time I saw Gregory in person."

"Spare me your love drama!" Sherlock groans theatrically.

"You were telling me about your proposal," Mycroft prompts.

"So I went back to that particular scene where we had first seen our first dead body together. He texted me to say that I needed to look for something that was out of place, something that was different from the last time that I was here. I couldn't see anything, but I was looking everywhere, searching everything. There wasn't even any evidence that anyone had been there recently and I was confused by that. I turned around to tell John about that, that there was no one here for several years, and I realized he was down on one knee. I said, 'John, what are you doing?' And then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. It was absolutely amazing, Mycroft. Everything in my brain stopped in that moment. I couldn't figure out what he was doing. He said, 'Sherlock Holmes, I am madly in love with you. You are the father of my children, my brilliant Consulting Detective, and now, I'd like you to be my husband too.' So of course I threw myself at him and pledged my allegiance to him for the rest of my natural-born life. We plan to be married in November."

"It's currently August," Mycroft replies, shocked.

"Yes, but I already have planned everything that I want for my wedding. It shouldn't be very hard to get everything put together within those three months that we have left."

"Do you want my help? I will gladly offer any of my resources, call in any favors you wish..." his voice trails off as he thinks about this.

"Thank you, but I believe John and I would prefer to keep it a small affair, if you will. We shouldn't need your favors, though we will let you know if we do need you. I- we- appreciate it. I have assembled a folder of wedding materials to make our planning easier." He grabs a massive folder that he had dropped on the floor when Mycroft threw him out the door.

Mycroft's eyebrow rises. "How long ago did John propose?"

"It was at precisely four thirty-three p.m. Since that time I have had exactly two hours and forty-one minutes to consider my wedding, including the cab ride home. In that time I have found thirty-six different ideas for my tuxedo and John's, twenty-one different types of cake, located seven different possible venues, and decided on a color scheme and potential guest list. I also cemented the wedding party."

"You were certainly busy in those few hours."

Sherlock preens. "So, the important question: the best man."

"Mmhmm."

"What do you think?"

Mycroft furrows his brow at his brother. "Billy Kincaid, I thought we were in agreement about that. Balance the garroting against the lives saved and contributions to charity-"

"Yes, but John said we could not have a garroter at our wedding."

Mycroft pulls a face. "A shame. Well then, I do believe I would suggest Gregory."

"Who?"

"My mate, Gregory Lestrade."

"Ah, yes, him."

"He's a man and..." Is Gregory the best man Mycroft knows? He's almost certain he is, so he finishes with, "good at it."

Sherlock shudders. "I did not need that information about your sex life."

"That was not what I was telling you about, Brother Mine."

"The best man for my wedding," Sherlock says again. "Look, Mycroft, this is one of the biggest and most important days of my life, barring the day I gave birth to my children and the day I met John."

"Well-" Mycroft tries to argue, but Sherlock levels a look at him.

"No, it is. It is, and I want to be up there with the people I love most in this world: my children, John Watson,"

"Yes," Mycroft agrees, knowing how much Sherlock loves all of these people.

Sherlock sighs. "And you, Mycroft."

Mycroft stares at him unblinkingly for a long moment. "Mycroft," Sherlock says. No response. A few more minutes pass. "Lestrade, I may have broken your mate!"

Lestrade's footsteps are heard rushing up the stairs. "Mycroft?"

It becomes evident to both men when Mycroft comes back to himself. "I'm your best..."

"...Man," Sherlock supplies.

"Friend?" Mycroft asks incredulously.

Sherlock stares at him. "Yes, of course you are, and my arch-enemy. Who else would you have me ask?"

"Oh, you're best man? That's wonderful!" Lestrade says exuberantly. 

"You will be my Best Man, right, Mycroft?" Sherlock asks.

"Mmmm? Yes," Mycroft replies, sounding a bit dazed. 

Sherlock's phone beeps and he digs it out of his back pocket. "Oh, that's Mary. Something's happened, I have to go. I'll see you both soon." He vanishes with a whirl of his coat and a loud thud of the door downstairs.

Mycroft shakes himself out of his stupor, then reenters his bedroom and boots up his computer. He pulls up Google and types 'requirements of being a best man.' He glances up at Greg for a moment before being swallowed up by the blue screen again. "Don't wait up, I have research I must do."


	18. A Government Affair

Greg wakes up in the morning to find Mycroft is plastered to his side. "Morning," he greets, twisting so he can see his mate.

"Good morning, Gregory." Mycroft responds, pulling himself up and sauntering over to his closet. 

"You're sleeping with me, in the same bed, without panicking," Greg notes. "Two nights in a row, now."

Mycroft very carefully addresses his stocking feet. "I have discovered you keep the nightmares away." Nothing more is said until Mycroft is dressed in his suit. "Gregory, I have a government affair that I must attend tomorrow. It is expected that if we have a significant other that we bring them- would you wish to attend with me?"

Greg frowns. "I don't know, Mycroft."

The feeling of rejection floats through the bond instantly, and Greg curses himself. "No, it's not- listen. Have you looked at me lately? I can't dress nicely, and I don't have those refined manners that you do. If I went I'd probably embarrass you."

"I will defend you against those who would dare to insult your manners," Mycroft promises, eyes flashing.

"Everyone will know you have a mate, and I won't be content to play an Omega. I mean, I won't carry a sign announcing 'I'm the Alpha' but, Mycroft, are you ready for that?"

"I must introduce you to my coworkers eventually. I have met yours, and I believe it is customary to introduce your mate to coworkers at some point. It's been two years, Gregory."

"I know how long it's been, Mycroft. I'm asking you to think about whether or not this is something you want, to make us public."

"I did not ask you on a whim, Gregory," Mycroft replies icily. "But I have no intention of forcing you, either. You may consider your evening free tomorrow."

"No, if you're sure, then I'm going with you."

"Make up your mind," Mycroft sneers, and Greg recognizes it as a mask for the hurt behind it.

"Listen to me," Greg answers, taking a step into Mycroft's personal space. He reaches out to touch his mate, takes Mycroft's chin and ever-so-gently turns him until Mycroft is looking at him. "I don't want you to regret this. I understand that this is a major career-changing move for you. But I love you, and if you would wish to have me, I would love to be at your side during this government affair."

"I just told you I want you there. Must you always have everything spelled out for you?" Mycroft demands in exasperation, though Greg realizes the tense moment has passed and Mycroft is calm again.

"I am a bit of a goldfish," Greg answers. 

Mycroft smirks at him. "I will have Anthea deliver you to my tailor on Savile Row for you to get fitted for a suit." 

"When you say suit, are you talking about the outfits you wear on a daily basis?"

"Yes. You told me that I was wearing 'what the common man, whose suits do not come from Savile Row, would refer to as plaid and jeans,'" Mycroft recites from memory, "during that Halloween party that was our first date. It is my turn to provide the clothing this time." He grins absolutely wickedly at Greg and adds, "Besides, I have to come off of my heat suppressants again soon. If you wear those clothes for me tomorrow, you might be able to persuade me to peel them off of you tomorrow night."

Greg groans at the image Mycroft has given him. "Mycroft," he gasps.

Mycroft blinks at him innocently. "Yes?" He glances at his watch. "Oh, so sorry Gregory. I am afraid I must be off to work. Good day," he pulls his umbrella from the rack and begins swinging it as he meanders outside.

"You are a cruel man, Mycroft Holmes!" Greg yells after him.  
...........................................................................  
Mycroft has had his tailor pick beautiful clothes for Gregory, and now it's just a matter of seeing Gregory in them. Gregory has disappeared into the bedroom and has not reemerged for the past fifteen minutes. Mycroft knocks on the door. "Gregory, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Mycroft," Gregory answers. He wrenches the door open. "I look ridiculous."

Mycroft's mouth goes dry. Gregory is standing there in a black suit, with a brown tie dangling from his fingers. The tie, once on, will perfectly match his eyes. His hair is mussed a bit, obviously from wrenching his fingers through it in agitation. "And I can't even tie this tie!" he exclaims, dangling the offending piece of fabric in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft takes it from him, moving closer to his mate to tie the tie. He loops it into a Windsor knot effortlessly, inhaling the scent of Gregory. It's spicy and a true test to Mycroft's control. He steers Gregory back into their bedroom, pushing him to a stop in front of the mirror. "Not ridiculous, no," he argues. "You look gorgeous and in-control, dominant and Alpha." The fact that he's nearing his heat has nothing to do with his interest.

Gregory squints at the mirror. "Are we both looking at me, or are you describing you?"

"Only you, Gregory," Mycroft practically purrs. 

"Do we have to go out?" Gregory questions. "We could just stay in. I could think of about ten other things I'd rather be doing," he suggests, with an appreciative glance at Mycroft.

"We must go, Gregory. I apologize."

Mycroft links their elbows together and steers Gregory out the door and into his car. Gregory doesn't say a word, though he fidgets frequently and readjust his cufflinks ten times, and his tie seven. He is, surprisingly, the first one out the door when the car stops. He is the one to open Mycroft's door instead of his driver, linking his arms through Mycroft's with an awkward smile. 

"Showtime," he mumbles.

Mycroft allows himself to be led to the door, reaching in to his pocket to pull out the invitation. He extends it to the courtier without a word, who accepts it and allows them to pass through. As soon as they get inside Gregory is gaping at the people. Everyone is dressed far fancier than those he is used to, even at the parties he attends. He glances at one woman who is wearing diamonds through her hair. "These clothes cost more than my paychecks for the entire year," Gregory whispers quietly.

Mycroft nods in agreement. Anything he was going to say is cut off as a woman's voice calls, "Mycroft!" They both turn, seeing the Queen smiling at them. "Oh, and you've brought Gregory. My goodness, don't you look handsome!" She leans forward and kisses his cheek, which makes Mycroft casually pull Gregory back. 

"He's mine, go get your own," he orders quietly.

The Queen laughs good-naturedly. "I believed I'd rather have yours. Gregory, dear, do save a dance for me later, won't you?"

Gregory looks flustered. "I suppose so," he answers.

The Queen pats Mycroft's cheek and excuses herself. "Champagne, sirs?" a waiter offers, coming up to them and offering a tray. Gregory reaches out and takes one, drinking a tiny bit and making a face.

"I must not be cut out for this," he says to Mycroft. 

Mycroft laughs in response. "There is no need to be nervous," he chastises kindly. "They will all love you."

There is a lot of dignitaries they meet. Names start blurring together for Gregory, though he remains polite to everyone. At one point, Gregory is stolen away from Mycroft for a dance with the Queen. He is returned in minutes, though Mycroft is a bit jealous when he returns. He instantly loops his arms around Gregory, casually tipping his head to the side as he inhales Gregory's scent straight from the source. Gregory laughs breathlessly. "Well, you're certainly possessive tonight, aren't you?" he teases.

"I apologize," Mycroft answers. "But I am getting closer to my heat." He smiles toward the men he was talking with, knowing that they do not speak English. "Excuse me, gentleman. I am going to dance with my mate." He sweeps Gregory out onto the dancefloor, leading them into a foxtrot. 

"This might be a good time to mention I can't dance," Gregory tells him.

"Fortunately for us, I can dance well enough for the both of us," Mycroft replies, helping to lead him through the motions. "Though I must inquire, are you enjoying your time here, or do you hate it?"

Gregory smiles. "It's alright. Honestly I'm more enjoying watching you work your magic. Getting everyone to do what you want."

Mycroft smirks. "I am good at this, aren't I?"

"You are astounding," Gregory answers. "I will be forever in awe of you."

"You're the Alpha. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around, that I am to be forever in awe of you?"

Gregory smiles deviously. "You are, Mycroft, you are. The difference between us is that you won't admit it," he teases. 

Mycroft levels a look at him. "Is that something you wish to hear, Gregory? Do you want me to tell you that I am in awe of you, that I think that you're amazing, that I live to worship you?" He grins playfully. "Because I won't." He leans closer, the next words just barely a breath. "Not without proper motivation. Alpha."

Gregory laughs. "Alright, listen, who are you and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft shrugs innocently. "I took a few cues from Dean, at least as I approach my heat. But only for you, Gregory."

Gregory laughs. "You are trouble, Mycroft Holmes. I want to take you home."

"Even though I'm trouble?"

Gregory grins. "Perhaps because you are trouble. I am a police officer, after all, perhaps trouble is attractive to me," he teases, looping his fingers around Mycroft's wrist like a mimicry of handcuffs. He leans forward, inhaling the scent of Mycroft's neck. "And you, Mr. Holmes, are nothing but trouble."

"Let me go for just a moment, my heat is coming on faster and I need to text my driver. I will be right back. Don't move."

Gregory does as he's told. Within minutes he feels hands moving along his chest. "Hey, Mycroft," he says. "That was fast." He spins around to look at his ex-wife. "We have got to stop meeting like this," he says, channeling some of Sherlock's bi***iness.

"Greg, listen-" she begins, reaching for him. 

"Touch him and I will ensure your hand does not remain connected to you for long." Mycroft's tone is ice, and Gregory shivers in response. 

She wisely pulls her hand back. "Who are you?"

"Gregory' s Omega, Mycroft. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but its not. Please excuse us, we are going." A possessive hand settles itself in the small of Gregory's back. 

She snorts. "You going to let your Omega boss you around, Greg? Put him in his place," she demands. 

"Just let it go, and let me go too. We're leaving."

"Greg-" she argues, latching on to him. There is a loud ferocious snarl and Greg's ex-wife goes flying through the air, crashing onto a table.

She jumps up, dripping blood. "You little b***h!" she exclaims.

"Mycroft-" Greg begins, but it's clear Mycroft isn't listening. He's stalked forward, planting himself in front of Gregory like his mate is a territory to be claimed. As Greg's wife moves he shifts with her, snarling continuously. His eyes are alight with unholy fire. "Mycroft, stop it."

The two circle each other, each one eyeing each other for weaknesses. She springs at him but Mycroft is faster, dodging to the side with only a fist thrown up. She bounces off his fist with a loud crack.

"Mycroft!" Gregory exclaims, and he throws himself at his mate as Mycroft hurls himself forward again. Several other men dart forward to restrain Mycroft as well, several ambassadors and even the Prime Minister. Mycroft fights them all, trying to get free to keep attacking.

"I will have you arrested for assault!" Greg's ex-wife screeches. 

"I will have you deported!" Mycroft threatens back.

"Mycroft, stop it!"

"Listen to your Alpha boy, and let the grown-ups talk," she mocks. Several people break out in gossipy whispers at this, and Greg cringes.

"Stop antagonizing him!" he orders. She falls silent abruptly, and within moments security has arrived to take her away. Mycroft goes limp the second she is gone, all the fight vanishing out of him, and the people holding him ease him to the floor watching him tentatively for a moment before deciding he's not a threat any more and releasing him, then backing away respectfully.

"What were you thinking?" Greg demands in exasperation, sinking to the ground and taking his mate's face in his hands. 

Mycroft frowns. "That I love you, and she was trying to take you back."

All of Greg's frustration leaves in an instant. "What?"

"I said I love you!" Mycroft yells. More gossipy whispers, but neither Greg nor Mycroft hear them. "I've told you before, but you didn't hear me because you fell asleep. I love you, and I hate her for hurting you, and I will not sit idly by while that conniving witch tries to steal you back."

Greg melts. "Mycroft, I'm not asking you to sit idly by. But you can't assault her, either."

"I just did," he retorts smugly.

"Mycroft, no. You need to apologize."

"I will not. I may deport her, too, just for the sake of it, really."

"No, Mycroft. You can't deport everyone you get angry at."

"Fine. She will be the last one."

"No, Mycroft," Greg says calmly. "That sets a bad precedent. Deport her, then the next thing I know you're deporting anyone who so much as looks at me."

"She deserves it," Mycroft states pettily.

"That I can't disagree with."

"Mycroft, you cannot attack people during a party as you just did," the Prime Minister says, coming forward and kneeling down to interrupt their conversation. "Considering this is a public event with several dignitaries from several different countries, we must suspend you while we look into your assault."

"I refuse to apologize," Mycroft argues ardently.

"You will be suspended for a week as we look into this event. You should leave now."

Greg lifts Mycroft from the floor with ease. "We're going," he reassures the man.

Not another word is said as they get into the car. Anthea is there, and she raises her eyebrows as Greg carries Mycroft to the car, but not a word is said by her. "This is wonderful," Mycroft says as the car pulls away from the curb. "I have a week to help plan my brother's wedding, I have a heat to spend with a mate whom I love, and I just broke my mate's ex-wife's nose."

"You are suspended from your job," Greg feels it's his duty to remind him.

"They'll bring me back, and they will probably try before the week is out. Mark my words."

Greg rolls his eyes. He leans forward, planting a kiss to the side of Mycroft's jaw, then another impulsively to the bond mark tying them together. "I love you too," he tells Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of my lovely readers who really, really wanted Greg's wife to get what was coming to her: I hope this suffices!


	19. Domestic Bliss

As soon as they cleared the door, Mycroft suddenly found himself pinned against the door. 

"Gregory, I want-"

"I know, Mycroft. It's okay, I'm here."

With a sudden show of strength, Mycroft reverses their positions so Gregory is against the door. 

"No. I want to show you how much I love you."

"Oh, okay. If that's what you want, go ahead."

Mycroft perks up suddenly. "Really?" he asks, staring at his mate curiously. "I've never been allowed...I am not able to take control. I'm an Omega."

"I know, but if you want to take control, you can."

"Oh. You're certain?"

"Do you want to be in control?"

"Yes!"

"Then do it!" Gregory practically growls, shoving against Mycroft as though he's trying to break free. 

Mycroft flings him back against the door with a snarl. "Do. Not. Move." Each of his words is punctuated with a tiny bite mark to Gregory's neck. 

"Or what?" Gregory snarls.

Mycroft pauses for a moment. "I don't know, but if you test me, I will find out. I will do...something drastic."

"Ah, yes," Gregory teases, "the dreaded something drastic."

"I will bite you," Mycroft threatens.

"Oh, okay. Make it hurt," Gregory agrees cheerfully.

Mycroft growls again, low in his throat. "You are in a lot of trouble."

"How much trouble?" Gregory questions.

"A lot," Mycroft answers, scrambling for an answer. In a moment, he has clearly decided. "Enough that I should handcuff you," he announces.

Gregory presents his wrists happily. "Here ya go!"

Mycroft mock-glares at him. "You are enjoying this far too much," he reprimands, clicking the cuffs closed.

"Yes. I can't decide if I think this is sexy, or just really funny. Either way I'm in a state of perpetual enjoyment."

Mycroft draws away. "You think this is amusing?"

"No, wait, wait, wait! That's not what I meant!"

"This is because I'm not sexy isn't it?"

"This has literally nothing to do with this," Gregory argues. "Keep going."

"You just said that you 'are in a state of perpetual enjoyment.'"

"Yes, enjoyment. I am happy. Keep going."

Mycroft debates this for a moment, then turns and walks away. He hears a bit of a clatter as Gregory tries to come to him, but he has hooked Gregory to the door and the man doesn't know how to pick his own handcuffs, so he is stuck there for now. Which is good, because Mycroft's feelings are a bit hurt. He will hide out here.

His stomach cramps, begging for the Alpha in the next room. Mycroft frowns. 'No, he doesn't actually want me to be in charge. He just said that. We're no longer interested, body.'

His body absolutely betrays him, slick gushing down his legs. 'Not interested. Think unsexy thoughts.' Mycroft orders his body. 'Crime scenes. Corpses. Dead bodies. Parliament. Lie back and think of England. This is not working!' Slick is pouring off of him like a river, and so he begrudgingly stomps back out to his Alpha.

"Hey, you came back."

"I can tell why you became Detective Inspector," Mycroft snarks. "Always stating the obvious."

"Mycroft, I can understand why you're hurt. I can't communicate right. I was enjoying this-finding it funny- because I can tell that you're trying to act all confident and in-control but in reality you're not. You honestly have no idea what you're doing, but you're trying to make me happy, and I love that, and that's why I think it's funny, because you're always in control but in this you're at a loss."

"Glad my lack of knowledge is amusing," Mycroft snaps as he frees Gregory from the handcuffs.

"Mycroft, no, that's not what I mean. It's sweet, okay? And quite frankly, it really, really turns me on," he confides.

"You're lying."

"Okay, really? Look at me for about ten seconds and tell me I'm lying about being turned on."

Mycroft brushes his fingertips against Gregory's pulse, which is racing, and looks into his dilated pupils. "You're being truthful."

"Yeah, because you're so innocent, and yet you want to be in charge. You're so sexy."

"We need to redefine some key terminology, Gregory. Sexy and naivety are two very different words."

"Sure, Mycroft. Later. Right now I'd just like you to pick up right where you left off."

"No."

"Mycroft-" Gregory whines.

Mycroft leans in close, as though he's about to kiss his mate, before he breathes, "Ravaging you against the door could be interesting, but I'd rather take you upstairs to our bed and take you apart countless times, make you scream and beg with how much you love me. What do you think about that?"

"YES!"

"Glad you approve. Let's go." He scoops Gregory up and carries him up to their bedroom- because it is now, they will share it because they are mates and lovers, and lovers share a bed, Mycroft knows- and promptly drops him onto the mattress. A haze of heat-induced lust and love overcomes him, and Mycroft succumbs to the tidal wave joyously.  
..........................................................................

It would appear Mycroft enjoys biting Gregory, and generally marking the man and laying claim to his body. That is the message that Mycroft gets five days later when his heat finally lifts and he has the chance to look at his mate's body with clarity. Gregory has bite marks, bruises, scratches, and suck-marks all over.

Gregory pulls himself out of bed and studies his naked body in Mycroft's full-length mirror. "Oh my! Remind me to get you jealous way more frequently!"

Mycroft pouts. "This is not necessarily a result of any jealousy which may or may not be present in regards to your past relationship with your ex-wife."

Gregory pokes at one of the bite marks curiously, watching as it changes color under his fingers. "This one looks like you might've drawn blood," he remarks. "I shall call you Dracula!"

"You shall find yourself sleeping on the couch," Mycroft retorts.

"I better behave then. Rumor has it that a man I love sleeps in this bed, and now that I'm finally allowed to sleep in here with him I'm loathe to give that opportunity up."

"Hmm, what about that man? Does he love you back?"

"I don't know. I should probably make some calls." Gregory picks up his phone and dials a number. 

Seconds later, Mycroft's phone rings, and he picks it up. "Yes?"

"Are you in love with me?" Gregory asks, staring into Mycroft's eyes.

"Yes I am," Mycroft promises. 

"Good," Gregory answers, smiling blissfully at Mycroft. "I love you too."

"I am indeed aware," Mycroft replies softly. He hangs up the phone and approaches his mate, wrapping his arms around him. After the heat they just shared, this is somehow far more intimate- a moment Mycroft has never shared before.

A piercing ringtone cuts into their romantic moment. Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Hello, Prime Minister. Oh really?" He wiggles his eyebrows at Gregory, and knows from the face Gregory makes in response that he understands that the Prime Minister is calling personally to remove Mycroft's suspension two days early, just as Mycroft predicted. "Thank you sir, and I do appreciate that, but I'm not certain I've learned my lesson yet. I still have a desire to accost Gregory's ex-wife, you see. I think two more days of serious mentation over the matter will help remedy that, so I will see you Monday. Good day!"

Mycroft clicks off on his superior even though the man is trying to argue with him. He was given a week's vacation because he had assaulted Gregory's ex-wife, there was no need to cut it short. "You know, I haven't been punished adequately," Mycroft reflects to Gregory. "I broke your ex-wife's nose and I walked away with an unintentional vacation, an oncoming heat that I got to spend with my mate, and I proved my point that she is not to come near you again. Plus I still have time to plan my brother's wedding."

"Speaking of which, did you call your brother and John to invite them over for lunch so we can start going over wedding plans?"

"Yes of course."

"Did they answer?"

"John had the decency to return my phone call with a confirmation voicemail. They will be arriving around 11:30, which gives us two hours to be ready. You should go shower, you have lots of bruises to cover."

"You have lots of bruises to cover on me, my dear," Gregory asserts as he moves into the bathroom. A startled yelp comes from the bathroom a moment later. "Mycroft Holmes, why the h**l did you bite my a**?"

Mycroft smirks. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he calls back.

"You just wait until your next heat. I will bite you so hard you won't be able to sit for weeks."

This sounds like a wonderful promise to Mycroft's body. "Promise?"

"I've created a sex monster," Gregory laments. The shower water turns on and Gregory can be heard moments later singing loudly as he washes himself.

"Gregory, you are not a girl and you are not single, there is no need to sing Beyonce!"

"WOAH OH OH, IF YOU LIKE IT THEN YOU SHOULD'VE PUT A RING ON IT!" Gregory screams.

"I'm coming in there!" Mycroft threatens.

"I will beat you with this floofah!"

"Gregory, it's called a loofah, and it's mine."

"I will still beat you with it!"

Mycroft grabs his suit and walks into his bathroom. "Scoot over," he demands, crawling in with Gregory.

"Hey sexy. Come here often?" Gregory asks, propping his head on the edge of the shower.

"About once a day. Never before have I had another man in here though. It's a novel experience."

"So, are you single?"

"No, I've got a mate. He's amazing. He has brown skin, beautiful expressive brown eyes, and a really nice smile. He's a police officer."

"He sounds like a prat," Gregory says.

"Perhaps," Mycroft allows, "but he's mine." 

"Oh. Well don't tell him, but I was thinking that if you get down on your knees, I'll wash your hair."

"You could bring kings to their knees if you asked like that."

"I don't want kings. Just you." His fingers begin working their way through Mycroft's scalp, and Mycroft lets out a breathless chuckle.

"Were you going to wash my hair, or just play with it?"

"Bit of both, be patient."

"Must I?"

"Good things come to those who wait."

"But I am a very bad man," Mycroft responds. 

"Shut it, you," Gregory reprimands. "You're ruining the moment."

"What moment?"

"Domestic bliss."

"Is that what this is? I was under the impression we were engaging in flirtatious banter."

"Do you read the dictionary for fun?"

"Not for many years, why do you ask?"

He can hear the smirk in Gregory's voice. "Just wondering. Yes this is domestic bliss, Mycroft. Do you like it?"

Mycroft thinks this over. "I love you," he answers diplomatically. "The rest of this, I could do without it if I had to. Bit of a reputation to maintain, you know."

"You punched my ex-wife and broke her nose. Your 'Ice Man' persona took a hit from that, I am sure."

"Perhaps. I will need to be rude and arrogant, cruel and heartless when returning to work for a while to ensure I am taken seriously. That way no one will spread rumors that I am engaging in domestic bliss."

"God forbid people find out the Ice Man has a heart."

"All hearts are broken. I find I am rather fond of this fragile one. Be careful of it."

"Mycroft," Gregory sounds choked up and Mycroft wonders if he has said the wrong thing. "Thank you. I love you, and your heart, so much."

"We have already discussed this," Mycroft comments, abruptly uncomfortable. He stands up, washing the shampoo out of his hair with ease and lathering his body quickly with methodical strokes. "I'm going to get ready." Gregory laughs as Mycroft exits the bathroom, their moment of domestic bliss gone for now. It will re-emerge soon, certainly, but for now his brother and his brother's family are coming, and it would not do to alert Sherlock to the change in their relationship.


	20. Wedding Planning

'The house is certainly more alive with Sherlock and his family here,' Mycroft notes. Sherlock is waving his hands around rapidly, vividly painting the image of his wedding in the air for Gregory as the two sit practically knee-to-knee in the overstuffed chairs in Mycroft's parlor. John has moved into the kitchen to answer a phone call- based on his pinched brow it's Harry on the other line. Michael is screaming as he pushes a tiny dump truck around, maneuvering skillfully between the feet of his Daddy and Uncle Gregory. Mycroft smiles down at the tiny being in his arms. Zyana had run to her Uncle Mycroft as soon as her feet got inside the door, and no amount of cajoling from her brother to come play had convinced her to leave. 

"Mycroft, what do you think of lilac and chrome?" Sherlock calls. 

Mycroft ventures over and sits on the arm of Gregory's chair. "It sounds lovely," Mycroft answers. Sherlock's bright eyes study him for a moment, and Mycroft knows he is being deduced but not why. He straightens, narrowing his eyes as he begins deducing Sherlock. There is nothing new there, and it bothers Mycroft immensely that he can't figure out what his brother is searching for. 'Does my opinion on colors truly matter this much?' he wonders. 

Sherlock switches his gaze to Gregory then, so Mycroft follows his lead on that too. He can deduce everything about Gregory, and it makes him wonder if it's because he knows the man well, or simply because he is good at reading people, or perhaps a combination of the two. "What?" Gregory questions. "Do I have something on my face?" He looks at Sherlock a bit closer, then sighs. "Alright, I know you're deducing something, and you won't rest until you've said it. So c'mon, let's get this over with."

Sherlock says nothing, just glances back at Mycroft with that piercing gaze. His mouth slowly twists up into a smirk, but he still says nothing.  
John comes back into the room then. "Hey, what did I miss?"

"They've finally done it," Sherlock answers.

John grins. "Thank God. It was about time."

Mycroft's eyes turn into little slits as he tries to determine yet again what he's missed. John sits in a chair then continues, "Tell me everything."

Mycroft can only think of one logical thing that John wants to talk about, and his face flames in response. "No! Your children are here, and it's inappropriate, and- just- no!"

John shoots him a weird look. "You can't talk about how you finally told Greg you're in love with him because my kids are in the room? How on Earth did you tell him?" he inquires.

"That's what you wanted to know?" Gregory says. He thinks this over for a moment, then keels over laughing. Mycroft stares at him, trying to communicate mentally 'This is not funny! Stop laughing!' Looking at someone is more conducive to communicating through looking at one another, Mycroft reflects, and considering Gregory is currently bent over not looking at Mycroft their communication is nonexistent. 

"What did you think we wanted to know?" John has the misfortune of asking.

Gregory straightens up then, and shares a look with Mycroft. "Nothing!" they chorus simultaneously.

"You don't want to know," Sherlock explains when John shoots him a strange look. "But I'll explain it later," he stage-whispers. He laughs at the expression on Mycroft's face, then continues, "or I could just tell you now. See, based on the way Lestrade's sitting tenderly, and the bandage just barely visible there on his neck, it's obvious that Mycroft was particularly amorous during his last heat, to the point of causing pain, though Lestrade certainly wasn't complaining. He has twenty-five- no, sorry, twenty-six bite marks in various locations on his body."

"Oh, whoa, that's enough information!" John squawks.

Mycroft shoots his brother a glare and very briefly contemplates how to best wipe him from the Earth. It seems John may have learned telepathy, because he quickly redirects the conversation back to wedding details. Apparently he has brought address labels for the guests they plan to have, so Gregory helps stick them to envelopes as they converse about possible venues. Sherlock is butting into the conversation with details about flower arrangements, and then he's asking Mycroft's opinion about how best to arrange them- chrome vases, or baskets? What about the serviettes, should they be folded like swans or roses? Should the cake be customized or traditional? Would it be inappropriate to put a dead body (fake, of course) on the cake? What flavor should the cake be? Should Michael carry a pillow with the ring tied down in case he dropped it? Mycroft gives his answers, then Gregory is subjected to different rapid-fire questions.

Mycroft nearly kisses the chef when he comes in to announce lunch is ready. It is a blessed relief, and Mycroft quickly bans all wedding talk from his dining room table. He loves his brother, but a man can only be expected to take so much conversation about a wedding as his blood sugar drops.

John quickly brings the conversation back around to the topic he wants to know about. "So how did you tell Greg you loved him, Mycroft?"

"Well, I didn't so much tell him as scream it at him. After I punched his ex-wife and broke her nose."

"Sorry, you did what?"

"Well, she wouldn't let him alone, and she was warned. I'm not sorry," Mycroft defends himself.

"Where did you run into her at?"

"My government affair we had five days ago."

"Did you kiss him after that?"

"No," Mycroft answers, deciding to take this moment to take a big mouthful of food. 

"Why not? What are you waiting for?" John wonders aloud.

Mycroft swallows and mumbles something incomprehensible.

"Sorry, what?"

"My wedding day!" Mycroft snaps.

John's eyes swing to Greg. "You're getting married?"

"Um, no...not that I know of, anyway. Mycroft, do you want to get married?" Gregory questions him softly.

Mycroft has realized the awkward position he's put Gregory in, and it makes him desire to take everything back. 'I cannot just blurt everything out that comes to mind! I'm not Sherlock!'  
"Mycroft," Gregory repeats. "Do you want to get married?"

'When needed to retract a statement, issue statements of denial,' Mycroft tells himself. "No, of course not. Wherever did you get that idea?"

Gregory blinks owlishly at him. "You just said you did."

"No, I didn't." He can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks, so he turns away, addressing Michael's plate. "I just meant that I might be interested someday. Maybe. Years from now. Perhaps."

"Mycroft, love, you don't have to be embarrassed," Gregory consoles, taking his hand. "Hey Mycroft, can you look at me please?"

Mycroft refuses. A moment later his head is being gently turned as Gregory places his hand under Mycroft's chin. Mycroft stares at his mate's ear for a moment, a bit scared to look at him. When he finally gathers his nerve to look at Gregory's beautiful chocolate eyes, he finds his mate smiling at him. "Hi gorgeous," Gregory greets. 

"I apologize. I had no intention of pressuring you into a marriage, I truly have no desire to be married right now, we just became closer friends, more like mates, and I have no desire to rush through that. I am in love with you but I don't want to be married right away, does that make sense? Is that alright?" he blurts, anxiously scanning his mate.

"Mycroft, it's okay, really it is. I have no desire to get married right at this moment either. Like you said, you just told me that you love me for the first time I'm aware of five days ago. I am not offended that you don't want to marry me right away."

" 'Cle MyMy red!" Michael interrupts, reaching out a grime-encrusted hand to pat his uncle's face. The intensive spell is broken, and Mycroft pulls away from his nephew. He grabs a napkin and dips it into his water glass, scrubbing the goo from his face. It is only through excessive effort that he manages to hold back a grimace. 

Sherlock seems to realize that they have pushed Mycroft entirely too far, for he instantly launches into a story of the first time the twins started walking, pulling out his phone to play the video for the two uncles. The rest of that lunch is spent on lighter topics, mainly revolving around the children.

As soon as lunch is over, wedding conversations are picked up again. Mycroft feels he can focus a bit more now, though he's still not sure why Sherlock seems to care about his opinion so much. Between the two of them they manage to determine an appropriate venue, select an ordained person to marry them, determine how the flowers are to be arranged, and decide on decorations for the cake. The actual cake-testing can be the responsibility of John and Sherlock. 

Just when Mycroft thinks they have successfully dodged all topics of how he and Gregory are progressing in their relationship, Zyana goes running to her Papa howling. Big fat tears roll down her cheeks and she burrows into John, dragging snot across his cream jumper. "Zyana sweetie, what's wrong?" A moment later he is thundering, "Michael Gabriel Holmes, did you just bite your sister?"

"Uh-huh!"

John slips into his commander voice with ease. "Why?"

" 'Cle MyMy bit 'Cle G'eg cuz he lubs him, an' I lub my sis'er!" 

Mycroft promptly turns and walks out of the room, then out of the house. He walks to the end of the driveway, then sprints down the road. His security team follows, but he turns and growls ferociously at them. They back off as Anthea approaches. Mycroft flies off again as she follows a bit behind him. He runs until he cannot run any more, veering off the road and into the trees. His hideout is here.

Nestled within the woods is a small cottage with a lovely attic. This was part of the reason he bought this land. He climbs up there now, scrambling up the ladder. Anthea follows at a more sedate rate. It is rare he gets the opportunity to use this place, it is more common for him to hide in his own house. But that has been taken over, so here he is, sitting in the light dust on the floor in his suit. 

His head falls into his hands and he shuts his eyes. Slowly his breathing regulates, and he can feel his blush start to recede. He is absolutely humiliated. Somehow it had not occurred to him that Sherlock would deduce his actions with Gregory, or that Michael would bite his sister to show he loved her. Certainly no one could anticipate that! Finally, he had missed that John would press about their kissing, and forgotten to lie about the answer. It was all too much, so he would stay here until they left. 

"I never took you to be the type to have to hide away."

Mycroft refuses to give in. "Go away."

Instead, Sherlock comes closer. "The Detective Inspector is worried," he reports. 

Mycroft thinks about this. "Oh. I'm sorry your son bit Zyana to show affection."

"They're both fine ," Sherlock tells him. "My children will never know 'caring is not an advantage.' He will make utterly ridiculous errors: bite his sister to show his love, get his heart broken, but he will be stronger for it."

"Is that what we are? Stronger? It doesn't feel as though we are."

"Because we were taught to believe that we were weaker. But look at our lives objectively, Mycroft. We have two wonderful men who would kill for us if we asked them to- and already have, though we didn't ask. Plus, they're gorgeous. We have family that loves us. We're stronger for that. John has helped me heal and I know Lestrade has helped you too."

"Yes, but I'm still sorry that he learned that from me."

"If the worst thing that happens is that he learns that every once in a while, people bite each other when they love each other, it's no big deal. Last week he learned the f-word from John. Yesterday he learned how to do an experiment, because I left an experiment for a minute and a half." Seeing Mycroft's face, he elaborates, "it was a safe experiment, for once, thankfully. But still, the ramifications are that he could have been dead. Besides, considering the many things you know and could teach my son, I'm lucky that the only thing you taught him was that."

"How to murder your enemies and bathe in their blood 101," Mycroft quips.

"You're not funny," Sherlock says, but he laughs too. "Are you ready to go back?"

"Yes." Mycroft allows his brother to pull him to his feet, and they walk back slowly. 

"Lestrade, I found this out in the woods. I believe it's yours!" Sherlock calls the second they get inside the door.

Gregory comes forward immediately, wrapping his arms around Mycroft. "You alright?"

"I am fine, thank you. It all got to be too much...I still don't talk about my feelings easily. Love...humiliation..."

"He's embarrassed that Michael learned to bite people that he loves," Sherlock expounds.

John laughs. "No big deal, Mycroft. Listen, thanks for all your help today, and for lunch, we really appreciate it, but we have two kids that need to be put down for a nap." He politely shoves Greg out of the way, wrapping his arms around his brother-in-law. Mycroft pats his back uncomfortably, waiting to be released. 

Once he finally lets go, the family is whirled away quickly, and Mycroft and Gregory both slump against their door. "When we get married, you better have all of this figured out. I'm not doing this again," Gregory says.

"Supposedly Sherlock had a lot of it already planned," Mycroft tells him.

"Well then, you'll just have to plan more."

"I am superior to my brother in every way, so I think that I could manage that too."

Mycroft looks at Gregory, and they both start snickering. "Perhaps we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves," Gregory allows.

"No ring on my finger," Mycroft teases, flexing his fingers and wiggling both hands at Gregory. 

"Thank God, because I'm to the point where if I have to have one more discussion about the arrangement of flowers, I will probably run away screaming."

"You and me both," Mycroft agrees.

"So, no proposals for...when do you think you'll be recovered?"

"Two years, at least."

"Yeah, that was my thoughts too. So in two years we'll get married then."

"Certainly."

"In the meantime, be sure to save those lips for me."

"Oh, you would prefer me to not run around kissing every man I see?"

"That is exactly what I'm telling you."

"Only if I get to deport your ex-wife."

"No."

Mycroft laughs, pushing himself away from the door. "Perhaps I'd better go find a different man to kiss."

"You are totally ridiculous, did anyone tell you that? You may not deport my ex-wife."

"Fine. How about if I lock her out of the country for a day?"

"No."

"Please?"

"While that would be really funny..."

Mycroft shoots him a pleading look. "I happen to know that she went to France on a shopping excursion today. She was buying hundreds of dollars worth of lingerie for a new lover. Are you certain that I can't deport her?"

"This brings up so many questions. One: how do you know she's in France? Two: how do you know what she bought? Three: when you say deporting, are you talking for a day or forever? Because yes, you can absolutely deport her for a day."

"Thank you!" Mycroft says exuberantly, pulling out his phone and sending out an email. "As to how I know and why, I am the British Government, remember?"

"I think I need a new career," Gregory mumbles.

"Would you care to watch the footage with me?" Mycroft asks.

"Is that a serious question? Yes, I want to watch!"

Mycroft takes his mate's hand and leads him to his computer, effortlessly pulling up footage from a ferry in France. "I don't understand!" Gregory's ex-wife is screeching. "I just came over today, there is no way I cannot get back into Great Britain! I have plans tonight!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It appears you have been detained for smuggling."

"Smuggling? There's no way I'm a smuggler!"

Mycroft clicks his phone open, sending out a text. Another man enters the room then. "This says that you have been found guilty of smuggling a jade pin," the man says.

"Jade pin? We've already done that, Mycroft," Gregory remarks. "You're getting boring."

"I'm hard-pressed for time," Mycroft answers. "Forgive me for not having my creative juices flowing."

'Detain her until tomorrow. Personal favor. -MH'

'Of course.'

"Enjoy this," Mycroft tells his mate happily. He goes for tea, enjoying the arguing of Gregory's ex-mate as he leaves.


	21. Where's John?

Wedding details slammed together in a rush and before anyone could've believed it, it was the day before Sherlock and John's wedding. It had been a busy couple of days for Mycroft, November was always terrible for politics and so he was busier than usual, especially with the knowledge that he would be taking the day off tomorrow. 

Consequently, he had slept approximately four hours so far this week, and it was a Thursday.He was woken from a dead sleep after a mere ten minutes, which made him feel like crying as he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"WHERE'S JOHN? DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?" Mycroft holds the phone away from his ear as he grumbles quietly. This is ridiculous.

"Brother Mine, what are you talking about?"

"Why would you kidnap John on the night before our wedding?"

"I didn't. I was asleep."

Sherlock is silent. "Oh. I deduced you had only slept a few hours this week."

"Four," Mycroft grumps.

"Well, John is missing. If you don't have him- we took down all of Moriarty's group, so do you think he's safe? We didn't advertise the wedding but word got out, Mycroft if he's killed I will never forgive myself, and I'm not fit to raise the children on my own, particularly not if I'm bent on revenge, where is he, Mycroft?"

Mycroft slings out an arm to the other side of the bed, feeling for his mate, but Gregory's side is cold. "I wouldn't know. I can see if perhaps Gregory is with him for a bachelor celebration of some sort." He hangs up and stumbles downstairs. 

Gregory is watching the TV with the volume turned low in the sitting room. Mycroft's almost-brother-in-law is nowhere to be seen. "Mycroft, what's wrong? Do you need me to turn down the TV?"

"You haven't heard from John, correct? Sherlock wanted me to confirm."

"No," Gregory replies, looking baffled. 

Mycroft's phone rings, it's Sherlock again. "They've been in contact. Go back to bed."

"Not until you call with information about his whereabouts and well-being."

"Mary and I will find him. He will be fine. Go to sleep, you're no good as a witness if you fall asleep standing at the alter."

"Fine, but text Gregory."

"I will." The loud click tells him that Sherlock has hung up without saying goodbye.

Mycroft huffs in annoyance and crawls onto the couch. He had only intended to use his mate as a pillow, but Gregory maneuvers him so he's lying with his head in his lap. "Babe, you should go up to bed," Gregory says. Mycroft snuggles in, making a sound suspiciously similar to a cat as Gregory's hand smoothes through his hair. 

"Too cold," Mycroft protests. "Doesn't smell like you."

"You're a liar," Gregory teases. "I sleep in that bed every night. It definitely smells like me."

"The scent is stale," Mycroft argues.

Gregory continues stroking Mycroft's hair, not saying anything.

"Wake me up when you hear something about John."

"No."

"Then I'm not going to sleep."

"You can barely keep your eyes open."

Mycroft reluctantly peels himself off Gregory and opens his eyes. Gregory's arms wrap around him, forming a cage. "Where are you going?" Mycroft's mate questions.

"To make myself some strong tea so I can stay awake."

"If it's really that important to you, I'll wake you up," Gregory promises.

Mycroft collapses back into Gregory, allowing his mate to guide him back down into his lap. After a moment, Gregory's hand resumes stroking Mycroft's hair, and Mycroft drifts off soon after.

Mycroft wakes an indeterminate time later. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he looks for his mate. Gregory is agitated, and it radiates through their bond. He is scared too, and Mycroft bolts upright. 

Gregory hovers behind him, arguing into his cell phone. "No, you're coming and that's final. No, Sherlock. It's not up for discussion." He shoots Mycroft an apologetic smile, raking his fingers through his hair. "No! If someone's going to try to kill my family, I'm going to protect them, d**n it! Fifteen minutes. You be here by then with your mate and children or I will arrest you. Oh, you don't think so? Try me, I dare you." Gregory clicks his phone furiously, muttering profanities under his breath. 

"Did they find him?" Mycroft demands. 

"Oh yeah, they found him. Ready to be roasted like a f**king marshmallow, but they found him."

"Guy Fawkes Day," Mycroft answers. "He was in a bonfire?"

"And someone lit it. He's fine," he adds, seeing Mycroft's face grow paler. "But your stupid brother won't admit they're in danger. I'm forcing them to come here tonight."

"Thank you," Mycroft agrees breathlessly. 

Gregory pulls out his phone and sets an alarm. "Go ahead, Sherlock," he mutters. "Test me. See if I won't have them arrest you." Right as the alarm goes off, a loud knock sounds on their door. Gregory stalks toward the door, ripping it open. "Are you trying to prove a point?" he snaps.

"Simmer down, Graham," Sherlock chastises as he walks in, unwinding his blue scarf from around his neck. "It was the best we could do. We paid the cab driver extra to get us here within your timeframe."

"We? Oh I'm sorry, I thought I was the one who paid," John comments sarcastically.

Mycroft leaps up at the sound of his voice. He is shoving his brother heedlessly out of the way, grabbing both of John's arms and examining him for any injuries. John's hair is singed on his arms, but it's still present, unlike Mycroft's own after he was burnt. "Mycroft?" John asks, confused. Mycroft ignores him. He scans carefully for damage that might be hidden by the loose sweaters John wears, but quickly determines there is nothing hidden. He lurches forward, both arms coming up to cup John's face. Finally satisfied, he drops his arms to John's shoulders, crushing him. "Mycroft, can't breathe," John protests.

"You're alright," Mycroft announces.

"Yeah, didn't they tell you? Although if we could please not tell the kids that I was found in a f-i-r-e"

"F-i-r-e spells fire!" Michael cuts in exuberantly. "Papa, you were in a fire? Are you okay?"

Sherlock snickers as John blinks at his son. "Yes, I'm fine. When did you learn to spell?"

"I taught myself one day. Zyana learned too." Zyana, who had come in holding onto John's leg, peeks around finally when she hears her name. She has her thumb in her mouth and looks like she's ready to go back to sleep. Upon seeing her Uncle Mycroft she suddenly perks up, walking over to him and holding up her arms. Mycroft obliges her. 

"I told Zyana we were coming to see you and Uncle Greg, Uncle Mycroft. We're having a sleepover! It's going to be so much fun! Do you have snacks for us? Can we sleep in our sleeping bags on the floor? Daddy said we could, but Papa said we had to ask cuz it might make you sad, but you don't mind, do you Uncle Mycroft? You could sleep with us too, if you wanted."

"I don't mind if you sleep in your sleeping bags. Are you sure you want to sleep on the floor? We could set them out on the bed if you wish."

"If I wish? You talk silly, Uncle Mycroft. I heard Daddy say one time it's cuz you're fancy." Mycroft narrows his eyes in his brother's direction. "'Sides, it's more fun to sleep on the floor. Didn't you ever have a sleepover with Daddy on the floor?"

Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a look, both thinking of the times as a young child when Mycroft would sleep on the floor of Sherlock's room to be certain that he was protected from their father during a bout of drunken anger. Mycroft plasters a happy smile on his face. "Once or twice, but it was a very long time ago. Come on Michael, I'll help you get your sleeping bags set up in front of the fire."

Sherlock dutifully lugs over the sleeping bags as Mycroft lowers himself to the floor. He helps his nephew set them up, not even noticing as his sleeve moves up. Zyana does though, and she reaches out to trace Mycroft's silver burn scars. Mycroft freezes.

"Zyana, don't! You might be hurting Uncle Mycroft!" Michael scolds. 

The little girl draws back, concern in her eyes. 

"It doesn't hurt," Mycroft reassures her. He tugs his sleeve down over the scars again self-consciously.

"Uncle Mycroft, are those the scars from when you were in the fire?" Sherlock draws in a sharp breath beside him. "I heard Daddy tell Papa that you had been in a fire too. Did the bad people hurt you like they tried to Papa? Why didn't Uncle Greg come to save you? He's a hero cuz he's a police officer, and he's your mate, so why didn't he save you like Daddy saved Papa?"

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment, trying to think how best to answer his nephew. "No, it wasn't Uncle Greg's fault. He didn't know me back then, so he wasn't able to help me. Some bad people did put me in the fire- different bad people- but I'm okay now."

"How do you know they're different people?"

"Because the bad person who put me in there has passed away."

Zyana looks at her brother questioningly, who stage whispers, "That means they died." She nods understanding.

"Is that why you were so worried about Papa? Cuz you had been hurt in a fire?"

"Yes," Mycroft responds mechanically.

"Are you sad, Uncle Mycroft? Should I stop asking questions?"

Mycroft bites his lip, thinking carefully about his response. "I am a little sad, Michael," he answers finally. "And yes, I'd like to stop talking about this."

"Okay. I'm sorry your hero was a bit too late, Uncle Mycroft," the little boy tells him, coming over to snuggle against him too. "Uncle Mycroft, you want to know a secret?"

"Sure, Michael."

"I love you a lot, Uncle Mycroft. If you'll let me, I'll be your hero too. Like Uncle Greg is."

"I'd like that," Mycroft says, smiling.

"Okay, then I will be. And Uncle Greg can be all of our heroes."

"Sounds good," Gregory answers, coming up behind them and wrapping his arms around them all. "I'll try to be everyone's hero."

Michael laughs. "You already are, Uncle Greg. That's why you're a police officer."

Zyana crawls over onto Greg's lap, still sucking her thumb. "Uncle Greg, can you get us a snack?"

"Sure, kid. What do you want? Zyana, can you help us pick something out?"

Michael abandons his uncle, tender moment gone. "Do you have apple juice or chocolate milk? And Goldfish?"

"I'm sorry for him," Sherlock speaks as their voices fade.

"Why? He's just like you. Don't apologize for that."

"He means well."

"I know."

"He talks well, considering last month he was speaking like an average toddler."

"He learned from a TV show that adults don't speak the way he does. Now he makes sure to pronounce everything properly."

"Mmm, definitely your child then," Mycroft observes.

"I didn't even think about you being burnt. No wonder you were so uncharacteristically worried," John says, coming to join them.

Mycroft shrugs. "I believe I would've been worried regardless," he remarks.

"I'm sure. Just, normally you don't hug the life out of me."

A half-smirk. "Perhaps I should start."

The three other members of the family return, Michael still jabbering a mile a minute. "Remember what Uncle Greg said?" Gregory finally cuts in when he has a moment.

"A snack and straight to bed," Michael echoes. "But I need to give hugs and kisses first!" he protests. "Get down, Uncle Greg!" Gregory kneels, and Michael plants a sloppy kiss on him. "Love you!" Zyana kisses Greg too while he's down, then both children are descending on Mycroft. "Love you, Uncle Mycroft!" Loud kisses, then, "Love you Daddy! Love you Papa!" They disappear into their sleeping bags, and not another peep is heard out of them.

"Are you sleeping upstairs, babe?" Gregory questions Mycroft.

"No. I want to be sure my family is safe."

Gregory nods. "I thought the same thing."

He crawls onto a nearby couch, reclining back so his head is propped up by the armrest. Mycroft carefully balances himself on Gregory, burying his nose into Gregory's neck where the scent of his mate is strongest. "I love you."

Quiet shufflings are heard as Sherlock and John crawl into their sleeping bags, and then silence descends. Mycroft is asleep again within seconds, knowing his family is safe nearby.


	22. A Wedding

When Greg gets up in the morning, he goes to the kitchen and starts making food. He gives the cook the day off- why not, if they were going to be gone for lunch and dinner both?- and starts on breakfast. Eggs would be good, and toast. Oh, and bacon. Sausage? Why not, they have it. Greg gets to work, whistling as he cracks eggs and begins to scramble them.

Mycroft stumbles in a few minutes later and begins preparing tea. Greg doesn't say anything, knowing that Mycroft takes a minute or two to wake up. Bothering Mycroft before he is awake is truly to the person's detriment.

Mycroft's tea boils and he begins sipping it. "Good morning, Gregory," he finally says. "What are you doing?"

"Just making breakfast."

"We have a cook."

"Yeah, I know, but I gave him the day off."

Mycroft's eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. 

"Your brother will eat something of this, right?"

"We'll force him to," Mycroft answers, cracking a smile.

Zyana walks in then and goes over to her Uncle Greg. There is a lot of tugging on his pant leg and gesturing until Greg finally understands that she wants him to get on the floor. He kneels down and she offers him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. Then she's over to her Uncle Mycroft asking to be picked up. She cuddles in, leaving her Uncle Mycroft with a tea in one hand and a child resting on his hip.

"She got to kiss you, and I didn't," Mycroft gripes teasingly.

"You jealous of a child now, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sets his niece on the counter with a stern, "Do not move," then approaches. The spatula is pulled from Greg's hand and he is turned and backed into the counter. Mycroft's mouth descends then, kissing his bond bite, then laving his tongue over it. He is just barely maintaining chasteness with their niece feet away. Greg is vaguely aware of the bacon crackling in the background, but his entire being is nearly consumed with Mycroft. 

"Is that the bacon, or your chemistry?" Both men jump as John enters the room, yanking the spatula off the counter and flipping the bacon. "Sizzle, sizzle, pop, pop," he teases, and Greg can feel his face flame. "Did you sleep well, baby girl?" he asks Zyana, lifting her off the counter. She nods, and holds out her arms to Mycroft again, expression disgruntled as though to say, 'How could you abandon me to kiss Uncle Greg?  
'  
"Sorry," Mycroft mutters to her. "I couldn't resist Uncle Gregory." She looks Greg up and down, then gives a tiny nod like she can see whatever Mycroft sees in him. Greg turns back to the stove before he can do something stupid, like ruin their entire breakfast because he can't keep his hands off Mycroft.

"Sherlock, babe, time to get up!" John yells, leaving the kitchen with two cups of tea in his hand. "We have things to do today!"

Sherlock bounces through, grabbing the tea from John just as he ducks through the door. "What? Has a new case cropped up in the middle of the night?"

John's lips press together in a very tight line, and then he manages, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you forgot that we are getting married today-"

"Of course I didn't forget, John, don't be ridiculous. But I was thinking if there was a case, we should solve it now so we can get back in time for the wedding," Sherlock interrupts.

"No cases, sorry," Greg says as he dishes the bacon onto a plate. "Breakfast is ready, though."

"Not an acceptable alternative," Sherlock grumbles, but he sits down to eat, scooping Michael up off the floor and sitting him in a chair as he toddles through the door. "Breakfast is ready. Uncle Graham made it for us."

"Uncle Greg," Greg corrects automatically. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, making both his children giggle.

Greg eats like it's a competition, because he will not be the last one in the shower this morning. Thankfully, he is the first one done, and so he vanishes upstairs to grab his suit and get in the shower.

Mycroft joins him soon after, but apparently he's not in the mood for anything because he keeps telling Greg, "I don't have time for your shenanigans." Greg puffs out his cheeks like a blowfish and gives Mycroft his best puppy-dog eyes, and for some reason Mycroft thinks this is so funny he's nearly crying. Greg isn't even sure why he did it, but he's glad it makes Mycroft laugh.

Then they're out of the shower and in front of the mirror and shaving. Michael barges in and Mycroft protests the fact that he's not wearing a shirt, but Greg lathers his nephew in shaving cream and they laugh about that too. Greg runs out for his camera and snaps a picture. He's already decided to take a bunch of candid photos for John and Sherlock, this will just be one of them. "Get in this picture too!" Mycroft protests, and Greg somehow manages to angle the picture so he gets all three of them in it, grinning stupidly at the camera. "Wait, wait!" Greg grabs the shaving cream and re-lathers himself and Mycroft, then takes the picture. "I now love weddings," he remarks as he wipes the shaving cream off all their faces.

"We're not even preparing for the wedding yet."  
Greg sticks his tongue out at Mycroft's back. Michael giggles, and Greg holds a finger up to tell his nephew to be quiet. By the time Mycroft spins around, Greg has an innocent expression plastered on his face. Mycroft eyes him suspiciously, then ducks inside the closet to put on his tie.

"Have you showered yet, little man?" Greg questions his nephew.

Michael shakes his head no, so Greg helps him into the shower and sets off to find his suit. He goes down the hall yelling, "John!" because he knows John will not have deleted the location of the suit for something else- always an occupational hazard in dealing with Sherlock. God only knew what would be saved and what would be deleted. Greg's name, for example, did not make the list, but 243 different types of tobacco ash did. It made no sense.

"Bathroom!" John yells, and Greg checks three different ones before he finally finds his friend. He walks in and realizes John is bathing Zyana, backing out with an awkward yelp. 

"Greg? What's wrong?"

"Just wasn't expecting you to be bathing her, that's all."

"Sorry. Have you seen Michael? I'm almost done with Zyana."

"Yeah he's in our shower. I came for his monkey suit."

"On the bed." Greg grabs it. "In a few minutes, can I send Zyana to you? I gotta shower and shave and figure out how to style my hair."

"Your hair? You are such a girl, John!"

"Shut up! Do you think I should shave it military-short, like when I first met him?"

Greg reenters the bathroom just so he can pin his friend with a disbelieving look. "I don't think he'll care."

"I need your opinion! This will be the only time I ever do this! Now, short hair or no?"

"No?"

"Alright." John pulls Zyana out of the tub, dries her quickly and efficiently, dresses her and sends her off with Greg. 

Greg picks up his niece. "You are a romantic sap, John," he tosses over his shoulder. He sprints down the hall before John can kill him.

"Just wait until you're the one getting married!" John yells. 

"You're back, good. Let me have the suit. Zyana you look beautiful. Michael stand still. Michael. Michael Gabriel, cease your movement immediately!" Mycroft thunders. Michael freezes, and Mycroft dresses him speedily. 

"How is John? No signs of cold feet? Can you call Mrs. Hudson and remind her to pick up the cake? Oh, and can you text Sebastian and tell him to get here? If John starts having a crisis I'm no good to him. And can you take Zyana with you when you go to check on the flowers? I think I may need to put my tie in the wash, Michael accidentally got it wet."

Greg blinks at him. "Yeah, got it. Calm down, you're not even the one getting married."

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"No."

"If he has second thoughts I'll need to talk him out of them immediately. According to several articles I've read online, this is my number one duty as best man. That's why Sebastian needs to get here. Have you texted him yet?"

"Mycroft?" Greg says, then he kisses him on his forehead, short yet passionately. "It's all going to be fine. Calm down. John is fine, your brother is fine. I'll call Mrs. Hudson, I'll text Sebastian, I'll watch Zyana and go get the flowers. I got it under control." Greg picks up Zyana and heads downstairs, ready to call Mrs. Hudson on his way to get the flowers. 

She is one step ahead of him, ringing the doorbell. "Mrs. Hudson, so good to see you again! Isn't your hat stunning!"

"Hello Detective Inspector! You're still as charming as ever!"she answers, unloading the cake box into his waiting arms.

"What can I say? Flattery gets me everywhere."

"Indeed it does, but you save that sweet talk for your young man. Now where is Sherlock? I'd like to see that boy before he gets married."

"Somewhere upstairs, I believe. I haven't seen him since breakfast."

"And your young man?"

"Also upstairs. Looking for Sherlock."

"Then I'll be upstairs. You take that cake into the kitchen, then skedaddle wherever you were going before I interrupted."

Greg sets the cake in the fridge carefully. He hefts Zyana onto his hip and tries to leave again. This time Sebastian is coming through the door, and Greg and him exchange pleasantries before he also disappears upstairs. Greg ducks out the door to get the flowers before he can be stopped a third time.

After a quick trip to the florist Greg has the flowers in the back of his police car, along with his niece. Zyana looks nearly consumed by lilacs, like a small fairy in a meadow. Greg takes a quick picture before he gets into traffic.

When they get back home, Greg finds everything has descended into chaos. Mrs. Holmes has arrived and is fluttering about nervously. Mycroft is pacing anxiously because Sherlock is refusing to get ready. John's been hunting for Zyana and is beginning to panic since he can't find her. Greg quickly sends Mrs. Holmes out to the parlor to sit for a moment, then he sprints upstairs to hand Zyana to John. John accepts his baby girl happily and disappears back into a spare room. 

"Mycroft," Greg says lowly as he approaches, trying not to startle his already frantic mate. "What is wrong?"

"He won't get ready. Is he having second thoughts?"

"Did you ask him that?"

"Yes, but he won't talk to me."

"Alright. I'll talk to him. Your mother is downstairs, why don't you go make her a cup of tea? Invite Mrs. Hudson along too. Oh, and John. Let's just get everyone calm. It's all going to be fine."

"Why did I ever think I could be best man? I can't even keep my brother from getting cold feet!"

"We don't know that that's the problem yet. Just go keep everyone else calm. That's your forte, remember? I'll deal with your brother."

Greg raps on the door and lets himself in without an answer. Sherlock is standing in front of the mirror, looking smart in his suit. He meets Greg's gaze in the floor-length mirror he is staring at himself in. "Do you think this is an acceptable outfit to marry John in?" Sherlock questions, turning and spreading his arms for Greg's perusal.

"Yeah, you look fine. Is that what you've been in here thinking about?"

"And rearranging my Mind Palace. I want to save every minute of today." Sherlock tugs on the sleeves of his suit. "Have you seen John?"

"Not lately."

"Find him, will you? Mycroft is very worried that I should suddenly have second thoughts. I am not the one who should suddenly wake up and realize I am being roped into the worst deal of my life. That is John's role."

"I really don't think John would've mated you if he was going to change his mind."

"He had no choice. Don't you remember? I was unconscious, very nearly dead- John saved my life! Mating me was the only way to save me, but there is nothing obligating him to marry me!"

"This isn't an obligation to him."

"Speak to John on my behalf. Please. Find him."

Greg leaves and heads downstairs, hoping against all hope that Mycroft had followed his directions to ask John for tea too. Thankfully, John, Mycroft, Sebastian, Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Michael and Zyana are all gathered in the parlor. Greg hangs around the door, "John, can you come here for a minute?"

"Gregory, would you like some tea? How is my brother?"

"In a minute, Mycroft," Greg responds. 

John sets his son on the ground and picks his way carefully through the group of friends assembled. "Greg? What's wrong? Is Sherlock having second thoughts?"

"No, he's worried you are."

"Me?" John echoes incredulously. "Of course I'm not. Perhaps I should go talk to him. Would that be a good idea?"

"I think so," Greg answers. "He's on the first floor, sequestered away in that room with the green paint."

John smiles. "I'll find it. Thanks, Greg."

John disappears upstairs. After a few minutes he is dragging a cherry-red Sherlock behind him, pulling him into the parlor and seating his mate on his lap. "Brother Mine, are you alright?" Mycroft questions, leaning forward in his chair. He alone has spotted the tears that are building in his brother's eyes. 

"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sherlock answers. He buries his face in John's neck, inhaling the pure unadultered scent of his mate. "I love you," he whispers to John.

John leans so his mouth is directly at Sherlock's ear, so whatever he says in response is kept between the two of them.

Sherlock smiles, and after a moment he uncurls himself from John's lap to pour himself a cup of tea. Zyana frowns at her Daddy anxiously, but Sherlock wiggles his eyebrows at her until she smiles at him. "I'm alright, darling," he tells her. She holds up a tiny teacup for him. "Yes, alright, I'll get you more tea," Sherlock laughs, pouring her the tea. "In two hours Daddy and Papa are getting married."  
..........................................................................  
In three hours, Sherlock and John have finally been married. It's nearly time for Mycroft's best man speech.

Mycroft stands nervously. "Telegrams," Greg hisses helpfully.

"Right. Telegrams." Mycroft reaches into his pocket for them. He flips through them, mouth moving as he reads the words to himself quietly, his cerulean eyes darting back and forth. "In a basic summary, the telegrams all repeat different variations of being thankful for the wedding of these two, my brother Sherlock and his mate John. Several of them wish you a happy, long life together."

Greg arches an eyebrow and stares confusedly out at Molly. She gives him an equal look of confusion.

"Oh!" Mycroft exclaims.

Greg turns to stare at him again, locking eyes with his mate. Mycroft is holding a telegram separately, and he folds it and puts it into his suit pocket, looking disconcerted. In a flash, he is back to normal. "So it is traditional to give a speech about my brother at this point." He gestures widely and vaguely toward Sherlock. "My brother. Sherlock. I apologize. This was completely unexpected to me, though apparently I am the only one who did not expect this to come. When my brother first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first I didn't know what he was asking me. When I finally understood, I expressed that I was both flattered and surprised. I'd never expected this, and I was a bit daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless swore I would do my best to accomplish this task, one of the most daunting I have ever accomplished. I thanked him for the trust placed in me, and indicated I was nearly moved by it. And then I came to find out I had said none of this out loud." People chuckle, and a small smile plays across Mycroft's own face as well.

"It goes against everything I believe to offer my congratulations on this momentous day. It contradicts the pure, cold reason which I have come to prize above all else. Caring is not an advantage, and I believed I had taught Sherlock that throughout our childhood together. It was frequently my experience that if you were to open your heart to anyone, you would end up being hurt. Caring is not an advantage, sentiment is a chemical defect, and love is a dangerous disadvantage. It astonishes me to think that I would stand here today, though not for the reason you might expect."

"Growing up, Sherlock and I were very similar, though I considered myself far superior in nearly everything- mental acuity, social attentiveness, indeed the only area I truly believed he had come out above me is that of physical attraction." Someone snickers, but Mycroft ignores them. "Seeing as how I had raised Sherlock to be so against love, it was a shock to me when he disappeared in Afghanistan, and came back in a whirlwind that somehow included John as his Perfect Match. I had never believed there was a Perfect Match out there for him, not because of anything he did, but because he was like me, and I didn't believe there was anyone out there for me, either."

"When I first saw John, I believe my first thoughts were 'he's really short.'" Several guests titter now. "I was supremely unimpressed by my brother's Perfect Match. What I am trying to impress upon you is that I am one of the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could have the misfortune to meet.I am dismissive of the virtuous," he pins Greg with a look, "and unaware of the beautiful," he turns so he is addressing his niece and nephew with that, "and entirely uncomprehending in the face of the happy." A final turn, so that his brother and John are the two addressed with his last statement. "Sherlock and John, this moment in your lives which occurred exactly," Mycroft checks his watch, "twenty-three minutes and fifty-six seconds ago will indeed change your lives forever. You are now linked together in holy matrimony. Your lives have taken you a new direction, and I congratulate you for that. May you always remember this as the day that I publicly declared that I was wrong- caring is indeed an advantage, and caring for John and your children has made you stronger."

He breaks off to realize that several members of the audience are crying. Greg is having trouble keeping himself together, his eyes welling up with tears. "Gregory?" Mycroft approaches him looking lost. "What's wrong? Why are they all crying? I've ruined it somehow, haven't I?"

Greg's tears spill over. "No, no," he reassures his mate as he dabs at his eyes. "Its happy tears. You didn't ruin anything."

"Everything's perfect, Mycroft," Sherlock says, standing to wrap his arms around his brother. 

Mycroft addresses him lowly, so that only the people sitting with them can hear. "And I offer you my own vow as well. Sherlock, you are my brother, and, quite surprisingly, also my best friend. I swear to you, here and now, to protect you, your mate and new husband, and your children from whatever evil arises against you."

"You don't have to do that," Sherlock responds. "That's what I've got John for, now. It can't be just you and I against the world anymore. NO!" he screams suddenly, and everyone turns to stare at the groom who's screaming. He slaps himself across his right cheek, echoing loudly across the room. "NO! NOT YOU, NOT YOU!" he screams to Mycroft, who is staring at him with the blankest expression possible. "You!" Sherlock exclaims, wheeling toward John. "It's always you. John Watson, you keep me right." There is another long awkward pause, and Sherlock breathes, "Vatican cameos."

Greg is lost now, and based on the confused expression on Mycroft's face, he has no idea what's going on either. "Gary, the loos please," Sherlock calls.

"It's Greg," Greg corrects. His phone beeps in his pocket, and he pulls it out curiously.

"The loos. Now. Please."

"But, why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's your turn?" he snaps, jerking his head toward the door.

Greg finally reads the text, which says, 'Lock this place down.' He shoves the phone back into his pocket, while saying, "Actually, now that you mention it-" as he heads toward the door. The moment he is outside he sends a text to Anderson and his colleagues who are not at the wedding. Within minutes they have shown up and surrounded the building. Greg sneaks back inside.

"Let's play a game," Sherlock tells his guests, leaping over the table so he's out amongst them. "Let's play Murder. If you were going to murder someone at a wedding, anyone at all, who would it be?"

"I think you're a popular choice at the moment, dear," Mrs. Hudson tells him. 

"Yes, if someone could move Mrs. Hudson's glass, that would be lovely," Sherlock replies. "Now, who would you kill only at a wedding? Most people you could kill any old time in any old way. As a mental exercise I've often planned the murders of friends and colleagues. John, for example, I'd poison. He's a messy eater, it would be astonishingly simple to introduce a poison into his food. He'd never even notice. He's missed an entire Wednesday once, and had no idea," he brags while pacing maniacally. Greg has a thought that perhaps they should invest in bipolar medication. And an actual diagnosis of bipolar, too. "Lestrade is so easy to kill it's surprising no one has succumbed to the urge yet." Greg bites the inside of his cheek to keep his retort back. "And of course I've broken into my brother's house so many times, it would be so easy to asphyxiate him while he slept. But who could you only kill at a wedding? And more importantly, who could do it?"

"I know, Daddy, I know!" Michael exclaims, jumping up. "The Invisible Man could do it!"

"The who, the what, the why, the when, the where?" Sherlock questions his son.

"The Invisible Man with the invisible knife. The one that tried to kill the guardsman that you and Papa saved!"

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaims, mouth forming a perfect 'o' shape as he thinks. "Mycroft!" he exclaims, leaping the table again and grabbing his brother around the shoulders. "Distract them all, and do it quickly. I know who's going to die but not how, we don't have much time."

"Mary?" Mycroft whispers quietly.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Too public."

"Major Sholto," the brothers whisper together.

Mycroft whips around, grabbing his glass and holding it up in the air. "To the grooms!" he exclaims.

The guests bolt upright and grab their glasses, echoing Mycroft's toast, though they look very confused. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude," Mycroft announces. The guests mutter confusedly, and their mutterings only grow louder as first Sherlock, then John, then Mary shove through them. Mycroft picks his way over to the door and to his mate.

"Hey."

"You've got this place locked down?"

"Yeah, but Mycroft, what is going on?"

"Someone is trying to kill Major Sholto, and they're using John and Sherlock's wedding as the perfect opportunity to do it."

"What do we do?"

"You do what you do best, arrest the criminal. I'm going home."

Greg replays that in his head. "You're what?"

"I'm going home. You heard him, it's not me anymore to keep him focused or to protect him, it's John. There's nothing more I can do. I've given my speech, I'm going home."

"O-okay, I guess. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. He still needs you, just...just not me."

Mycroft's walls come down for just a moment, and Greg can feel how much Sherlock's words have hurt him. "Mycroft-" he tries, but Mycroft is already ducking out the door, hurrying away. Greg hurries outside after him, but is forced to change directions when Phil comes up dragging the photographer behind him. Greg huffs and changes trajectory, yanking the man back inside behind him. Within minutes Sherlock is confirming the man is the attempted murderer. Greg spends the rest of the wedding celebration booking a criminal and worrying over his kind-of fiance. As soon as he is able, he hands everything over to Phil and heads out to find his mate.

Mycroft is curled up in his chair in front of the fireplace, watching the flames dance with a melancholic expression on his face. "I'm fine," he says as soon as he sees Greg, "I am just processing that this is the end of an era."

Greg picks him up with ease, tucking Mycroft into him as he settles into Mycroft's chair himself.

"It's all a bit different now," Mycroft says. "I'll miss him."

Greg hums quietly.

"It's fine, really. He didn't mean to hurt me. And he's right, I can't be his only protector anymore."

Greg hums again.

"But I can't back off completely. He's still my brother, I'm obligated to care for him. I made a vow and I intend to keep it." 

His voice trails off and he doesn't speak again.


	23. Honeymoon

Later that same night, Greg hears someone knocking on the door. The restful state is broken, and he pulls himself up from the couch to let in Sherlock and John. He had nearly forgotten that they had agreed to watch the twins while Sherlock and John went on their honeymoon. It had surprised him that Mycroft had decided they could watch the children, but Mycroft had pointed out that they had watched the children throughout the entire week that Sherlock and John had been believed to be dead, so there was no reason they couldn't babysit again. 

"Where's my brother?" Sherlock asks as soon as Greg opens the door.

"Resting by the fireplace."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock screams, setting off.

"Hey, listen! You should really let your brother alone!"

Sherlock pays him no heed, skidding to a stop in front of the chair Mycroft is resting on. He grabs his brother's arm, jerking him up from the couch, and drags him off to a different room. Greg isn't sure what is said, but when they return Mycroft has a small smile playing across his face. Whatever Sherlock has said has clearly helped heal their relationship again. As Greg watches the two men embrace, though Mycroft breaks free quickly and goes to John, reaching for his nephew. Michael is asleep, and with a bit of finangling John manages to keep him that way. Mycroft lays him tenderly on the couch for now.

"You're sure you'll be fine?" John questions Greg as he hands his daughter off, helping to lay her on the couch too. In her sleep she curls around her brother, which makes both men smile.

"Of course! It's only for a week, not like we asked for them for a year. And besides, I've got you on speed-dial. I can and will call if anything goes wrong," he jokes.

John rolls his eyes. "You remembered to get time off work?"

"Wait, I have to do that? I thought you said they could watch themselves until I got back!"

"Greg!" John exclaims, exasperated.

"I'm teasing you, John. Mycroft and I both switched off days that we asked off, and we're both cutting our work days significantly shorter. We've got it all worked out."

"Wait, so at some points Mycroft will be watching my kids by himself?!"

"Yes."

John's face twists into a smirk. "Well, good luck, Mycroft," he says, going over to clap his brother-in-law on his back. "If you guys need any help, just about everyone we know has babysat at one time or another. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mary, Sally, so don't be afraid to ask. And just call if you need anything. We can always come back early if something really drastic happens."

"Nothing less than the resurrection of Moriarty, Graham, or there will be trouble."

"No, no, there's no need for that," Greg says. "We'll be fine. Now don't you guys have to go? When did you tell Mycroft's pilot you wanted to leave?"

"Soon, very soon. I'm just a bit nervous about leaving them."

"We've watched them before, we'll be fine. Have fun at...wherever it is you're going."

"Did you find out where you're going, Brother Mine?" Mycroft queries quietly, ginger head bent toward his brother's black curls as John moves further away again.

"No idea," Sherlock pouts. "You didn't find out anything, did you?"

"Unfortunately, no. My pilot has been suspiciously close-mouthed about the entire thing. If it were regarding anything else I would order him killed, but ultimately I do not believe lives are in danger because your husband will not tell us where you are going on your honeymoon."

"Yes, I agree. Lives aren't in danger. But I really want to know!"

"Sherlock, it's time to leave," John calls, interrupting the discussion between the brothers. Sherlock allows himself to be pulled out the door, though not before he kisses both his children goodbye. The door shuts with a quiet click, and Mycroft helps his mate to pick both children up off the couch and move them upstairs into the room Mycroft had prepared for them. 

"We'll leave the door open, so we can hear if they wake up and need us," Greg tells him. "The way we did before."

Mycroft agrees, though he stays up most of the night sitting in front of the door just in case the children wake and need him. Around four a.m. he finally crawls into bed next to Greg..........................................................................Mycroft is beginning to wonder why he thought he could babysit his brother's children. On one hand, they were significantly easier than before because Michael could communicate, so he could explain what he or Zyana wanted instead of crying. On the other hand, Michael Gabriel clearly had enough curiosity to rival his father. He had knocked Mycroft's suit of armor and played with it for hours before Mycroft caught him. In a fit that left both himself and Gregory despairing for his future, Michael had stolen Gregory's warrant card, and very nearly set it on fire before Gregory had even noticed it was gone. He had attempted cooking one day and completely ruined a cake Mycroft had planned to enjoy. And he asked questions incessantly, often to the point where Mycroft had to regretfully send the child away so he could work in his office uninterrupted. 

Zyana was much easier. She woke up in the morning and crawled into Mycroft's lap and stayed there happily for several hours. Mycroft would monologue for her, detailing everything he did. He would tease her too, telling her that she would work for the government under him one day. "You can't sit in my lap forever, though," he'd tell her. "People would have all kinds of nasty things to say. And you'd have to speak, though refrain from blurting your deductions out. Your Daddy has to learn that now, but it would've been easier for him to learn it when he was your age."

Zyana giggles at the thought. 

"It's certainly beneficial to be silent in many scenarios. You learn more that way. Uncle Gregory can tell you that, too."

"Mycroft!" Gregory bellows as though to belie Mycroft's point. "Michael and I are back from the park!"

Mycroft carries his niece downstairs and kisses his mate's cheek. "Welcome back."

"Uncle Mycroft, Uncle Greg pushed me so high on the swings! I was almost flying like Superman!"

"That sounds wonderful, Michael."

"Did you and Zyana have a good day? Get a lot of work done?"

"Indeed, and we had a scintillating discussion on the benefits of silence, as well." He flashes an impish smile. "Rather, I held the discussion, and Zyana provided practical application of said discussion."

"You're using too large of words, love," Gregory teases. 

"You enjoy when I flaunt my education."

"That I do!" Gregory agrees, and Mycroft's face heats. 

"Uncle Mycroft, your face is red again!" Michael exclaims jubilatly. "Did you kiss him, Uncle Greg? That's why Daddy turns red, if Papa kisses him!"

"No, I didn't," Gregory answers, "do you think I should?" he asks his nephew.

"Yes!"

Gregory waggles his eyebrows and leans in, brushing a kiss against Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft playfully pushes him away, scrubbing at his cheek and making the children laugh.   
.........................................................................Before long it is the day before Sherlock and John return from their honeymoon. "I'll be glad when they go," Mycroft confesses quietly. "I love then both, but I could never be a full-time father." He smirks, though Greg can feel sadness radiating off him suddenly. "I suppose, thanks to the abortion, I'll never get the opportunity to worry about children and my failures to properly parent."

Greg can feel his hands scrunch into fists, though it's the only sign of his true feelings. They don't say anything for a while, then Mycroft shakes himself and says, "I'm off to bed. Coming, Gregory?"

"Not yet, I'm not tired," he responds regretfully. "Sleep well."

"Don't be too late." 

Greg smiles, knowing Mycroft will come find him if he wakes and Greg isn't in bed too. "I'll try not to be."  
.........................................................................They have just finished breakfast when John and Sherlock return. The twins jump up and tackle their parents exuberantly. "Hi Daddy, hi Papa!"  
"Hello, darlings. Were you good for Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg?" John asks. 

"Yes!" Michael promises, and Zyana nods in agreement. 

"Were they?" John asks Greg softly. 

"Angels," Greg reassures. 

"Papa?" Michael begins, tugging on John's shirt to ensure he has his attention. "What is an abortion?"

John freezes. "Where did you hear that word?"

"Uncle Mycroft! Him and Uncles Greg were talking about it last night! I asked Uncle Greg but he said I had to be older. So now I'm a day older and I want to know!"

"When did we talk about this?" Greg demands incredulously as Mycroft shoots him a look of betrayal. 

"You were asleep on the couch and I woke you up to ask. I just want to know, Papa. What is it, and why can't Uncle Mycroft have children?"

"You can't have children!" Sherlock and John echo, staring at Mycroft in shock. 

Mycroft doesn't answer. "I'll be upstairs, Gregory, if you could finish with the-," he waves his hand vaguely, "-the everything. Thank you." He ducks out of the kitchen and jogs upstairs. 

Sherlock starts off after him, but Greg smoothly intercepts him. "Leave him alone," he orders. 

"It was my father, wasn't it?" Sherlock asks. 

Greg doesn't answer. 

"I will dig up his corpse and re-murder him!" exclaims Sherlock furiously. 

Greg sighs. "That won't help him. Listen, forget it ever happened. Delete it."

"I can't-" Sherlock begins. 

"Do it. Now." Greg interrupts, Alpha voice commanding as he's urged to protect his Omega. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, and after a minute or two he reopens them to report, "Done."

Greg exhales in relief. "Thank you."

"Why? What did I do?"

"Something nice," Greg answers. He looks to John, who appears very conflicted. "John-"

"This isn't right."

"It's not my secret to tell," Greg argues. 

"No, I guess its not, but he shouldn't keep it bottled up."

"He doesn't."

John sighs. "Fine. We'll let you deal with him. Apologize on behalf of our son, would you? We should go."

"Yes, you should," Greg responds, not cruelly but matter-of-fact. "We'll see you later."

John ushers his family out the door without another word, and Greg sets off to find his mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so long in between posts yet again! For some reason Sherlock's reaction to the news really took forever for me to come up with.


	24. Preying on Those You Love

Mycroft Holmes sat alone in his office fuming. He had told Lady Smallwood twenty-two times in the last week that he did not want his brother involved with Charles Augustus Magnussen. It had been highly beneficial that Sherlock and John were on their honeymoon where clients like Lady Smallwood could not bother them, but mere hours after their return she had gotten to them. And Sherlock had agreed to take her case. 

"Something changed," Lady Smallwood offered when Mycroft expressed his shock that she had gone to his brother after he said HE would deal with Magnussen- he, and NOT Sherlock. 

As soon as he finished his meeting with the Prime Minister at three Mycroft would go to Baker Street and warn his brother away from Magnussen. It was the only way to keep him safe. 

Around three Mycroft ascended the stairs of 221B with a vague feeling of discomfiture. He was certain that this was solely due to fear for his brother and his family. That was, until he took one look at his little brother and realized he was strung out on drugs. Strung out, and yet with John's permission!

"What is this?" he snarls. 

"A distractor," Sherlock snaps. The drugs make him moody, drive him toward anger quicker. "Use your brain."

Mycroft realizes he won't get a better answer, so he grabs John and yanks him away. "What are you doing?!"

"Giving Magnussen a distraction, like Sherlock said. We found out Magnussen preys on what people love most. For Sherlock, that's me and the children. If it were just me I wouldn't care, but I won't allow our children to have targets on their forehead yet again. So we're using the drugs. Addicts love their substance of choice more than anything else- spouse and children included. We're hoping this works."

"You're allowing my brother to become an addict!"

"I don't like this any more than you! But we have no choice. It's us or the children, and they win out every time."

Mycroft storms back to see his brother. "If you persist in doing this, you will find yourself going against me."

"Okay, I'll let you know when I notice," is Sherlock's arrogant retort. 

Mycroft finally leaves and goes home, despairing for his brother's future. Gregory isn't home, so he drifts through the house aimlessly for a while. He finds himself in their room.

As he looks around the space, John's words come back to him. If Magnussen does indeed prey on what someone loves, Gregory is in danger. Mycroft must protect him at all costs. 

Mind made up, Mycroft texts Anthea to pick Gregory up from work in his car. Then he digs out a suitcase and begins packing it. 

..........................................................................  
Greg is thrilled when he realizes Mycroft's car is at the latest crime scene, ready to pick him up. He's finally wrapped everything up and Donovan, bless her heart, volunteered to stay late to file the paperwork so he can leave right now with his halfway-fiancé.   
He bounds over and leaps in the car with a "Hi, babe," only to look awkward when he realizes Mycroft isn't in the car. "Sorry, Anthea, I figured you were Mycroft."

"Please get in the car."

Greg shuts the door behind him, then settles back against the seat. He lounges against the door for a while, until he realizes something odd is going on and he bolts upright. "Where are we going?"

"What do you mean?"

"Our house is the other way."

"We're not going home."

That stops Greg. "Are we going out to eat or something?"

"Or something," Anthea agrees, and Greg frowns.

"It's not our anniversary, and not a birthday. Are we celebrating, or is this just an 'I appreciate you' dinner?"

"Not a dinner, no. Mycroft requested I bring you someplace. Please, no more questions."

Greg falls silent, collapsing back against the seat again. His curiosity is piqued, more so when they finally stop in front of a hotel. 

Anthea goes in alone and comes out swinging a room key. "Come along, Greg."

Greg follows obediently. He looks around the hotel room in confusion, glancing at the suitcase lying on the bed open with his clothes still in it. "What is going on?"

Anthea watches him impassively as he goes into the bathroom. Mycroft isn't there, but his toiletries are. He's very confused. "Where is Mycroft?"

"He's still at work."

"Where are all of his things? Why isn't he here? Why are we here when we have a house in this same town?" An idea suddenly occurs to him, and he turns to Anthea with wide eyes. "We're not getting married today, are we?"

"No, you're being kidnapped."

Greg stops. "You want to run that by me again?"

"Detective Inspector, I have kidnapped you."

Greg quickly assesses possible exits, eyes raking Anthea up and down and not noticing a weapon. He throws himself at the door, though Anthea tosses him back easily. She pulls a gun out- where did she hide that, he didn’t see that!

“Greg, please be reasonable. Do you really think anything happens around here that Mycroft doesn’t know about? He knows you’re here, he asked me to kidnap you.”

“You expect me to believe that Mycroft ordered me to be kidnapped? Why?”

“Because you’re in danger.”

“From what? You?”

“Of course not. Mycroft and Sherlock are going up against someone dangerous. The man preys on the people that they love, tries to manipulate people into doing what he wants to protect those they love. If you are hidden away, you should be safe.”

“I’ve just been kidnapped! I’m not feeling very safe!”

“This man makes Moriarty look tame,” Anthea cautions, “and there is no need to feel unsafe, Detective Inspector. That’s why I’m here to stay with you. Mycroft posted guards all through this hotel, no one will get by without us knowing. We will protect you.”

Greg’s jaw clenches and he sinks onto the bed with a huff. He digs in his coat pocket, then turns to glare daggers at Anthea. “Where is my phone?” he bites.

“It’s been removed from your person for your safety.”

“I do not have a good feeling about this. I want to talk to Mycroft.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“I don’t really care. See, you kidnapped me, and you’re threatening me, and you’re expecting me to believe that this was Mycroft’s idea, but I don’t really believe you and I’m freaking out right now, and for God’s sake I want to talk to my fiancé, so let me talk to him!”

Anthea frowns, but she digs out her Blackberry and begins a call to Mycroft. She places it on speaker so Greg can hear and speak to Mycroft too, but she will not hand him the phone. She’s not stupid, she knows he can- and probably will- try to keep it, or perhaps alert someone to his predicament if she hands him her phone.

Mycroft’s voice, tinny yet clearly him, comes on the speaker a moment later. “Yes, Anthea?”

“Greg wishes to speak with you.”

“What the h**l, Mycroft?!” Greg explodes.

“Gregory, I understand you’re upset-”

“No, I really, really don’t think you do,” Greg interrupts. “Kidnapping me? Seriously, Mycroft?”

“I am trying to keep you safe. I will not sacrifice you for the greater good.”

“And I appreciate that, but seriously? Kidnapping me? I’m your mate, not something you can just hide away when the going gets tough! I thought I meant more to you than that!”

“Oh, Gregory, my love, how can you not see this for what this is? I love you, Gregory, more than anything. This is me protecting you in the only manner I know how. I refuse to lose you, and Magnussen preys on the people his victims love. I will not put you in danger because I am going against him. I will not allow you to be made into a pawn because I love you, so I’ve effectively removed you from the chess board.”

“I love you too, Mycroft, but quite frankly I’m pissed at you right now. I’m a person with feelings and emotions, and also logic. I can understand if I’m in danger, and I can take steps to stay safe. There is no need to have Anthea kidnap me.”

“I have to go, Gregory. Please try to refrain from calling me again, I’m trying to keep your location hidden. If you need me though, please do call. Understand, Anthea?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you for Christmas at my mother’s, Gregory. Goodbye.” 

Mycroft clicks off the phone just as Greg squawks, “Christmas? That’s in two weeks, Mycroft!” 

Greg turns to Anthea. “He’s somehow arranged for me to have off of work, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, he has.”

“On Christmas we are going to have a long talk. A very long talk about boundaries, and mates, and how to protect those we love without kidnapping them. I refuse to be kidnapped and hidden away every time he thinks I might be in danger. I’m just not doing it. What does he even expect me to do for two weeks?”

Anthea gestures over toward the hotel’s television, where Mycroft had placed all of Gregory’s favorite DVDs. Gregory sighs, flopping back on the bed. “A very long talk,” he reiterates, grousing. “We’re not doing this again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go...finally got back to writing. My parents have been turning the internet off before I get back from work, so I've had to find new times to write. Sorry for the prolonged wait! Hope everyone had a great Christmas!


	25. Christmas

Two weeks later Anthea finally releases Greg from his kidnapping, and he sets off to find his mate. Anthea swore up and down that Mycroft would be at his mother’s house, so Greg heads there. 

Just as the taxi pulls up to Mycroft’s mother’s house, Greg spots Mycroft getting out of his car. “Mycr-” Greg begins, but he is cut off as Mycroft grabs him.

“Gregory,” Mycroft practically growls as he throws his mate up on the hood of his car. His mouth descends on Mycroft’s, kissing him on the lips for the first time since they became mates.

“That was really nice, but I’m still mad at you,” Greg gasps breathlessly.

“Yes, I understand that. And I understand why you’re angry Gregory, truly I do.”

“I’m an Alpha, Mycroft. I don’t sit back and be kidnapped while my mate does the fighting for me. I’ll fight with you, but I will not be relegated to the sidelines.”

“I realize that too. And I’m truly sorry, I am. But I could not sacrifice you. I will not lose you to a snake like Magnussen.”

“I love you, Mycroft. Whatever this Magnussen character is trying to do to us, we can fight it together.” He loops his fingers through Mycroft’s. “We’re stronger together. We can fight him together.”

“Are you-” Mycroft peruses him a bit, obviously trying to deduce out the answer. “Are you still angry at me?”

“Yes, a bit. I’ll get over it though.”

“Do you-” Mycroft takes a deep breath, glancing at his mate, “do you still love me?”

“Very, very much so,” Greg answers, kissing his mate again on the lips. Now that he realizes he can do this, he intends to do it much more frequently. “I will never stop loving you,” he vows.

Mycroft glances around, and then he laughs.

“What?” Greg asks, smiling at him.

“We are out in public, outside my mother’s house, and I have you flung up on the hood of my car and we are currently exchanging declarations of love. What have you done to me?”

Greg shrugs innocently.

“We should go inside,” Mycroft suggests. 

Greg leads them inside, knocking on the door and calling, “Merry Christmas, Mummy!”

“Oh, Greg! Merry Christmas!” Mrs. Holmes bustles toward them. She grabs Greg and hugs him tightly, then moves on to her son. “Merry Christmas, Mikey!”

Mycroft lets out a long-suffering sigh. “My name is Mycroft,” he protests to no one in particular.

“Mikey darling, if you want to kiss Gregory there’s mistletoe hanging on the archway into the kitchen. No need to use the hood of your car, it’s too cold outside for that nonsense!”

“Mummy!” Mycroft answers, scandalized.

“Oh, Mikey, Greg, there’s someone I wanted you to meet. Alan! Mikey, Greg, this is Alan. He’s my boyfriend. Alan, this is my son Mikey and his mate Greg.”

Greg shoots Mycroft a look, curious to see if his mate knew his mother was dating. Based on the expression on his face, he had no idea. He is standing in the foyer looking completely gobsmacked, which Greg knows means he has to be the polite one.

“Hi,” he begins, offering his hand to Alan. “I’m Greg.”

Mycroft has apparently snapped himself out of his silent horror, because he steps forward and shakes Alan’s hand next. “Mycroft.”

“You look like your mother, except the hair,” Alan tells him. “Definitely her eyes, though.” 

Mycroft’s answering smile could cut glass. “Yes, thank you.”

“Mummy, you never mentioned having a boyfriend to me,” Mycroft begins, following his mother like a lost duckling as she goes into the kitchen.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind him,” he tells Alan, “he takes a while to warm up to people.”

A car door slams outside, and Greg darts over to the window. “Oh, Sherlock and his family are here. Have you been warned about Sherlock?”

“No,” Alan responds, sounding confused. 

“Let’s just say he makes Mycroft look downright welcoming.”

Alan looks rather dubious at that, but before he can respond the door is being slammed open. “Ah, hello Graham,” Sherlock says, taking his Belstaff off and tossing it into Greg’s arms. “Merry Christmas, I suppose.” He takes one look at Alan and barrels off down the hall screeching, “Mummy! You never told me you had a boyfriend!”

“Michael, if you do not slow down this instant- hello, Greg, good to see you again. Let me take Sherlock’s coat- Zyana honey, I’m going to set you on the floor- be right back. Merry Christmas, Greg!” John sets off for the hall closet, Michael dashing at his heels happily.

“Right,” Greg says, turning to Alan, who has a shocked expression on his face. “So you’ve met Sherlock. And John. The boy is their son, Michael, and this little angel here-” he smiles as he picks up Zyana, giving her a hug, “is their daughter Zyana.”

Zyana looks around questioningly, then stares at Greg in confusion. 

“Yes, yes, Uncle Mycroft is in the kitchen with your Daddy. They’re both throwing a temper tantrum because Grandma has started dating someone.”

Zyana laughs at this, shaking her head like she can’t believe the stupidity of her father and uncle.

“Yes, I agree,” Greg says. “But you and I both know how protective both Uncle Mycroft and your Daddy can be.”

“Uncle Greg!” Michael screeches, throwing himself at Greg’s legs and latching his arms around them. Greg bends down, setting Zyana on the floor, and easily breaks the grip of his nephew to pick him up and toss him in the air. “Woohoo! Look Papa, I’m flying!”

“Don’t go too much higher, you might not come back!” John teases his son. Greg gives his nephew one more toss then sets him down too.

“Hey, John,” Greg says, leaning in to give him a hug. 

“Hey! Haven’t heard from you much lately, guess New Scotland Yard is getting on well without Sherlock and I?”

“Wouldn’t know. Mycroft’s had me kidnapped and hidden away for the past two weeks.”

“What?! Why?”

“Probably because he is a possessive ba****d,” Greg says. “In reality, though, it’s for one word: Magnussen.”

“We should have that wrapped up soon,” John comments.

“Hi, Uncle Mycroft! Merry Christmas! Uncle Greg says you’re a possessive ba****d!” Michael exclaims.

Greg sighs. “Michael, don’t use that word. Uncle Greg shouldn’t have used it either. It’s a bad word.”

“Why?” Michael wants to know, climbing up on the couch so he can look at Greg.

“It’s not a nice word.”

“Then why’d you use it?”

“Because sometimes Uncle Mycroft inspires not-very-nice words.”

“Uncle Mycroft, are you a bad person?” Michael wants to know, swinging around to look at his uncle who’s standing in the archway of the kitchen.

“Yes,” Mycroft answers honestly without hesitation.

“Cool! Are you a Sith Lord?”

Greg laughs. “He wishes he were that cool.”

Michael bounces off the couch. “Hi Grandma! Merry Christmas!”

“Hello, darling! I made some cookies if you and Zyana want one.”

“Yeah, cookies!”

Mycroft comes closer so he’s within their group, pressed to Greg’s back. “Hello, John. How goes the Magnussen debacle?”

“I’ll be glad when we get this whole thing wrapped up. He’s evil, which I’m sure you know even more about than I do, and he’s threatening Sherlock. He took the bait, though,” he finishes with a pointed look at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighs in relief. “Thank God for small blessings, I suppose.”

John and Greg both shoot him an odd look. “You don’t believe in God,” Greg finally says.

Mycroft simply shrugs. “Perhaps there was something in the punch.”

“Mummy!” Sherlock screeches, and Mycroft’s head whips to check out the commotion, so he completely misses the look that crosses John’s face at his joke. Greg doesn’t though, and he narrows his eyes thoughtfully.

Nothing else comes of it, though. Eventually Greg tries the punch himself, and he finally concludes that there is nothing in it.

They open presents. Greg has never done Christmas with children before, and finds himself having a lot of fun. Michael oohs and ahhs over every gift- literally, every one- and Zyana screams wordlessly if she gets a gift she really likes. Thankfully, Sherlock has finally stopped trying to deduce everyone’s presents, so overall it’s a really nice time.

Greg engages John and Alan in a long and lengthy discussion about police work- something Alan knows about, since he is apparently a retired officer himself- as Sherlock and Mycroft step outside to smoke a cigarette. He can’t help laughing as the two brothers are busted by Mummy.

“Cannot believe the audacity of you two-” Mummy chides as the brothers come back inside. “I’m making dinner and the two of you are outside smoking. Smoking! Are you trying to kill your dear Mummy?”

“Of course not. We’re very sorry, Mummy,” Mycroft answers contritely, though Greg can’t tell how much is real and how much is feigned. 

“If I wanted to kill you I would come up with a much quicker method,” Sherlock responds.

Mycroft rocks back and tramps on his foot pointedly. 

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“Say you’re sorry!” Mycroft hisses.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Sorry, Mummy,” he mutters, with an angry glare at Mycroft. 

Within a few seconds Mycroft is in even more trouble. “Mikey! How many times have I told you, no laptops at the table?”

“I’ll move it Mummy, just let me finish this email.”

“Mikey!”

“It’s an emergency, Mummy!” Mycroft snaps.

“Greg, get your mate in line!” Mummy calls.

“Sorry, Mummy. He doesn’t listen to me. I’m just his mate,” Greg says.

“Fine. Greg and John, can the two of you help me bring food to the table? Alan, will you pour water into the glasses for us? We’re nearly ready to eat. Zyana, sit there next to your uncle, and Michael you sit next to her. Whenever you’re done, Mikey, wash up. Sherlock, you wash up too, I’m certain you probably have the remnants of some nasty experiment on your hands. Take your children with you too. Oh John, can you actually put that turkey on the other side? Alan volunteered to carve it for us. Greg, those potatoes can go by Mikey, thank you. How does it look?”

“Beautiful,” John answers, obviously staring at her instead of the table. 

Mrs. Holmes smacks his arm. “The table, you flirt!” she scolds.

“Oh yes, the table looks nice too,” John replies after a moment of perusing it.

Mycroft finishes his email and sets off to wash his hands. By the time he is back, his mother is still upset. “Mikey, is this your laptop?”

“Upon which depends the security of the free world, yes. And you got potatoes on it.”

“Well, you shouldn’t leave it lying around, if it’s so important,” Mrs. Holmes says dismissively.

“Daddy and Papa say we can’t have work or toys at the table,” Michael chimes in helpfully. “When it’s time to eat only food can be on the table. Otherwise Papa gets upset at Daddy.”

“A good rule, which I shall implement immediately. Put your laptop somewhere else, Mycroft.”

Mycroft tucks it under his chair. Mummy levels a look at him.

Seeing his mother’s look he says, “What? You are all waiting to eat, no need to keep waiting just so I can put the computer somewhere else. I’ll move it after dinner.”

Greg tucks his fingers into Mycroft’s, squeezing his hand in a show of sympathy.

“It’s only two o’clock,” Mycroft whispers for only Greg to hear. “It’s been Christmas day for at least a week now. How is it only two o’clock? I am in agony!”

“Mikey, I made your favorite cake for dessert.”

“Mummy, I’m on a diet, but thank you.”

“You’re on a diet- since when?” Greg demands.

“The past two weeks,” Mycroft answers quietly.

“It’s not helping. He’s only lost one and a half pounds.”

“Three,” Mycroft counters his brother.

“Mm, no. Your scale is inaccurate. Much like your diet.”

Mycroft grips his butter knife tightly. “I will come across this table.”

“Do you think you can get your fat body over it?” Sherlock questions.

“Sherlock, Mycroft, can we not do this? It’s Christmas!” Greg protests.

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but John speaks over him. “Not another word, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, unless it’s to apologize to your brother.” Sherlock closes his mouth.

“If you are all done, I’d like to eat before the food gets cold,” Mummy says. “Alan, would you please begin carving the turkey?” 

They eat in silence, except for the children, who seem not to have realized that the adults are tense and angry with each other. 

Halfway through dinner, Greg looks over to realize Mycroft hasn’t eaten much at all. He fixes his eyes on the clock, then surreptitiously watches his mate. Within five minutes Mycroft’s fork doesn’t make its way to his mouth at all, and that’s enough to agitate Greg. 

“Sherlock, I’d like a word please.”

Sherlock follows him obediently.

“Apologize, please. He’s not eating at all. And he’s not fat, you and I both know it. The fact of the matter is, the two of you would do anything for each other, so I don’t know why you persist in picking on each other like you do, but this is ridiculous. He has enough issues with his body without you adding to it.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but he does return to the table and haul his brother off manually. Within a few minutes both are back, Mycroft smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit, and both men sit down without acknowledging anyone. Mycroft, however, does pick up his fork and begin eating immediately.

Greg glances at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he mouths, and Sherlock nods.

Greg’s mouth practically cracks with a wide yawn, and the last thing he sees is a completely devious smirk taking over Sherlock’s face as he struggles to keep his eyes open. ‘There was definitely something in that punch,’ Greg thinks as oblivion calls to him.


	26. I have to let him die. For real, this time.

Greg wakes up to Mycroft throwing a fit. He crinkles his eyebrows in confusion as he glances around- this is not his and Mycroft's house, nor the hotel room he's been forced into for the past two weeks. After a moment he recalls Christmas Day, and dinner with Mummy. He remembers feeling sleepy, and the realization that Sherlock had drugged the punch, and that's the last thing he remembers. 

"I'm going to kill him," Mycroft fumes. "He stole my laptop!"

"I don't understand," Greg mumbles groggily. "Why would he drug us?"

"John alluded to the fact that the Magnussen debacle would wrap up today. Sherlock stole my laptop so he had access to Appledore!"

Greg is fairly certain he has missed all crucial parts of this conversation. "Appledore?" he echoes blankly. 

"Magnussen's vault where he stores all of his information he uses to blackmail people. Keep up, Gregory," Mycroft snaps. As Greg stares at him, stunned and hurt, Mycroft dials Anthea and barks orders- something regarding a helicopter and an armed team. "I'm sorry," Mycroft offers as he hangs up the phone. "My tone and words were inappropriate when dealing with you."

Greg doesn't answer him for a long moment, but then he moves forward so his arms are latched tightly around Mycroft.

Mycroft pats his back patronizingly, then shoves him off. "Once we have ensured the safety of my family, I will hug you then Gregory. I promise. For now I am so distracted I cannot focus on the warmth and love of your arms when I am fearing for the lives of my brother and brother-in-law. I do not wish to offend you."

"It's fine," Greg answers honestly.

Mycroft smiles at him, then picks up his phone and paces away again. "Holmes-if anything goes wrong this is all your fault," Greg hears him berate the caller. "No, it is- you were told to let me handle it!- yes, I know- you know what happened to the other one- caring is not an advantage- if he shoots Magnussen, we will all have to deal with the fallout-you heard me- my brother-in-law was armed- pardon me for not asking why he came armed!" Mycroft paces back, lowering a hand to Zyana's neck to check her pulse as she gives a low moan. He moves on to Michael, checking him too, then walks away again, apparently satisfied. "You have no idea what Christmas dinners are like," he says, giving a skeptical laugh. "Indeed. No, it's not my brother I am worried about. He has an uncanny ability to walk away from events like this. No, mark my words, Magnussen will be the one dead before the day is done, and that man's death will be on your head- Evidently. The public will see him- Siberia?- cleaning up the rest of Moriarty's network, unraveling the final strands. Yes, good. Then at least his eventual death will be working toward the greater good. Yes. I need to go. Goodbye."

Mycroft hangs up his phone and swears violently.

"Mycroft!" Mummy is awake, Greg finally notes as he peels his eyes away from his mate, and quite obviously displeased by her oldest son's language.

"Begging your pardon, Mummy, but your youngest son has just run off with my laptop full of state secrets, a gun in his husband's back pocket, and a group of people fully intending to ship him off to Siberia, to his death, if he murders the blackmailing government man like I know he will! I don't typically swear, but g*dd**n it, Mummy, now is a perfectly acceptable time to start!"

"Siberia?" Greg echoes, "To unravel Moriarty's web, technically. But that's the same place where they were captured before! They'll be murdered, and your superiors will look the other way!"

Mycroft nods, looking broken. "You see the problem."

"But that's only if this Magnussen character is murdered by Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't typically run around murdering people- Moriarty's network nonwithstanding."

Mycroft shakes his head. "I have long held the suspicion that Appledore is not a real place. I believe it to be a Mind Manor, in the similar manner of Sherlock's Mind Palace. If my suspicion is correct, Sherlock will remedy that by shooting him in the head, thus eradicating the issue of blackmail. And then my superiors will ship him off to Siberia to die for our people's protection."

"We have to go!" Greg urges, feeling the panic himself.

"Mycroft!" Anthea shouts, banging on the door.

Mummy crosses to the door and yanks it open. "Hello, Anthea. Bring my four boys back safely."

"I will, as much as I am able. I love them too."

"Mummy, please watch the children. Alert me immediately when they wake. Come along, Gregory." They dart out onto the front lawn together, tumbling into the copter. 

"What happened to the other one?" Greg yells over the sound of the chopper as they climb in together.

"What?" Mycroft yells back, shaking his head so Greg knows he hasn't heard.

Greg plasters his mouth to Mycroft's ear and repeats his question, then adds on, "I remember you said about that when you thought Sherlock had already been killed by Moriarty."

Mycroft shakes his head again. "Not here. If we survive, I promise I will tell you all about it."

Greg nods agreement, and the chopper roars off for Magnussen's home.

It is a short trip, and it feels even shorter thanks to Greg's pounding adrenaline. Just before the home comes into view, Mycroft squeezes Greg's hand and gestures toward his phone. The contact reads 'Mummy' and the message 'Children awake. Doing fine. Save their parents.' 

Greg glances up from the phone and feels his heart leap into his throat. Sherlock is out on a balcony with Magnussen and John, a gun pointed at Magnussen's head. "NOOO!" Greg screams, as though his nearly-brother-in-law can hear him and not pull the trigger. But it's far too late. Sherlock shouts something that Greg misses in the noise of the chopper, and the gun fires. Magnussen crumples to the ground, clearly dead.

Then what Greg can only think of as a terrible situation gets worse. His keen eyes spot the armed men on the ground, with their weapons drawn. Mycroft clearly spots them too, because he is barking "Do not fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!"

Miraculously, the men hold their fire, and someone bounds up to disarm Sherlock. He's already dropped the gun, hands in the air to show he's not a threat to them. They subdue him quickly and drag him off. John is left standing there in the light of the chopper, staring at the dead body his mate put on the ground. He looks abandoned, and Greg's heart goes out to him. "Put me down," Greg requests of Mycroft, staring at the forlorn figure of his friend. 

Mycroft lowers the chopper and Greg leaps out of it. He runs over to John, shouting his friend's name. "They took him!" John yells, nearly hysterical. "They took my mate, Greg!"

"I know," Greg says, and wraps his arms around his friend. "I know." He pulls John over to the chopper and helps him board. 

Once on, John looks around, as though he's expecting to see something. "Where are the children?" he shouts in Greg's ear.

"Mummy," Greg answers, and John relaxes. He sags into the seat, Greg hovering nearby uselessly as Mycroft lifts their craft into the air.

John doesn't move the entire time they get back to...wherever it is they're going, Greg hasn't been paying attention. He's too busy watching his friend. 

Mycroft lands the chopper without finesse and instantly darts away, moving with purpose toward a nondescript man in a dark suit. He is already talking as he falls into step with the man, clearly sliding into his Ice Man persona as easily as he slides on a jacket. His face is unemotional, and he never glances back to check on John and Greg.

Greg, for his part, helps his friend down from the chopper and leads him into Mycroft's workplace. He knows where Mycroft's office is, and guesses that they won't be meeting there now, so he leads John in there. He shoves tea at him, then morphs into a wolf and sits back on his haunches alertly, listening with his superior wolf hearing to be sure no one is coming near to hurt his friend. John is vulnerable, and Greg fully intends to protect him.

Greg sits stiffly for hours before he hears familiar footsteps. The door to Mycroft's office swings open, and Mycroft comes inside. He sits in his chair, not acknowledging either John or Greg. He stares at the wall blankly, Ice Man facade still firmly in place. Greg shuffles over and noses at his hand in a silent show of support, and Mycroft cracks. He shatters, abruptly falling limp onto his desk, as though his spine has stopped functioning.

"It's over," he breathes, "and I failed. They've decided: they're sending him to Siberia."

"Siberia?" John echoes. His voice is hoarse from not being used for so many hours. "He'll be killed."

"Yes," Mycroft agrees. "I have to let him die. For real, this time."

They say nothing, for there is nothing left to say. Greg slowly pulls himself back to human form and he sinks into the chair next to John, across from his mate. Nobody moves again.

Finally, Greg remembers an important question. "How long?" he croaks. "How long until they send him away?"

"Tomorrow."

"So soon?"

Mycroft shrugs listlessly. "It will be too soon no matter when they send him. One hundred years would still be too soon." He places his head back on the desk and doesn't move again.

In the morning, the situation seems no better. Sherlock has still shot Magnussen, and he is still destined to die. He is to be sent out at nine o'clock that morning.

Greg pushes John into Mycroft's bathroom and helps him shave with Mycroft's razor, and brush his teeth with a spare toothbrush Mycroft has. When John tries halfheartedly to bat at his arms, Greg tells him, "Sherlock needs this from you," in a no-nonsense voice, and Greg complies. In minutes he is looking better, though Greg is certain Sherlock will still be able to read John's restless sleep in Mycroft's stiff office chair. 

Once John is out, Greg drags Mycroft in. He helps him brush his teeth, and shaves his face for him because Mycroft should probably not be trusted with sharp objects at this point and time. Mycroft doesn't move the entire time. "Thank you, Alpha," he finally forces from dry lips. Greg forces himself to smile at him, and brushes a kiss over Mycroft's jaw. He doesn't say anything, but Mycroft's face twitches in a minute smile for a second before it settles back into his Ice Man facade.

Mycroft leads them out resolutely onto the tarmac where Sherlock's airplane is set to leave. Or rather, he leads them until they can see Sherlock, and then John sprints ahead, tackling his mate. The two exchange words, then turn to face Mycroft and Greg as they approach.

"So, I guess this is good-bye," Greg says resolutely.

Sherlock nods. "Anderson always knew it would end like this. Though I think Donovan would mourn, if she were here."

Greg tries to smile. "Yeah." He turns to walk away, but then turns back, slamming his almost-brother-in-law against the plane. "Stay safe. You prove them wrong, you prove all of us wrong. You come back to us. You did the impossible once, you better do it again."

Sherlock's ebony curls flap in the wind as he shakes his head no. "I don't think I can."

"You can," Greg growls fiercely. "Because I believe it. Okay? I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and you're going to be fine."

Sherlock's arm wraps around Greg's wrist, and he squeezes tightly in a rare show of affection. "Thank you."

Greg releases him, and Sherlock approaches his brother. "Mycroft," he greets.

"Sherlock." Mycroft obviously tries to speak, tries again, and finally shuts his mouth.

"Stop it," Sherlock tells him. "You did what you could."

"If I had just done something else-" Mycroft begins, but Sherlock talks overtop him.

"There was nothing else you could have done, no other argument you could have made. I know you, I know you tried everything possible."

"I will not lose you again!" Mycroft snarls.

"You have to. Remember when I first met John, and you told me our lives were taking us in different directions? That's all that's happening now. Though for the love of all things, Mycroft, do not be stupid and push away Gregory because of it. He needs you too, you know."

"Yes, I know," Mycroft agrees, both brothers turning together to watch Greg.

"When it's safe I'll let you know. I expect an invitation to your wedding."

"You'll be my Best Man, as I was yours."

Sherlock laughs. "Your superiors will love that."

"I do not care what they think. It's my wedding- mine and Gregory's- and we will do as we wish, and I wish to have you for a Best Man."

"Stay safe, Mycroft."

"You as well."

There is an awkward silence as the brothers stand together but say nothing. "John and I rewrote our will," Sherlock says. "I'm certain you already know-"

"No, actually. I took a lot of my surveillance off of you and John."

"Ah. Well, you and Greg are the caretakers of our children. I do not plan to take them to Siberia with me. It's one thing to condemn myself to death, quite another to condemn my children."

Mycroft hums noncommittally. When he can finally speak, his voice is gruff with everything he cannot say. "I'm honored." His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out. "That's the pilot. He's ready to leave."

Sherlock offers his hand to his brother, and Mycroft shakes it firmly. "Goodbye, Brother Mine."

"Until we meet again," Sherlock answers. He swoops his Belstaff around him, and heads over to John. John takes his hand and the two of them walk up into the belly of the airplane.

Mycroft stands there with Greg until the plane is a tiny speck in the sky. "They'll be okay," Greg reassures him. 

"Your faith is astounding, Gregory. I wish I had it."

Greg shrugs. "I'll just have to keep enough faith for both of us."

"We should go," Mycroft tells him. He turns to his car, allowing Gregory to pull open the door for him. He slides inside, smiling for a moment at his mate. "Thank you."

"Of course."

Mycroft leans back against the car seat and flips on the television. He needs something, anything to distract him from the pain of his brother taking off to go back to the land he nearly died in the first time- something mind-numbing, he'd even settle for that terrible show 'Supernatural' that Gregory loves so much. What he gets is something far worse.

Moriarty looms on the screen, face larger than life. His mouth moves like a mechanical marionette, with the disjointed words 'did you miss me?' piping through the speakers. The same words are also written in white across the bottom of the screen.

Mycroft blinks, rubs his eyes, and leans forward again. He did not sleep well last night, but this is ridiculous. But no, when he puts his hands down, Moriarty is still on the screen.

Mycroft's phone pings, and he glances down at the notification. 'Bring him back. Now. This takes precedence. If he can beat this, we'll forgive him for the Magnussen issue.'

Mycroft turns to watch his mate. Gregory is gaping at the screen, shocked. Mycroft angles his phone toward him, and when Gregory doesn't even acknowledge it, he taps his mate's wrist, and gestures to the phone. Gregory reads it, eyes flying up to stare at Mycroft. "Call him!" he demands, "Call him right now!"

Mycroft smiles at his impulsive mate, though he can't deny himself the urge. He pulls out his phone and quickly calls his brother, saying something stupid about how he "hoped his brother learned his lesson during his four minute exile." The joy is hard to keep out of his voice, and he is sure Sherlock picks up on it too.

The plane turns around and comes back onto the tarmac. Gregory is laughing now, and he bends forward to kiss the face of Moriarty on the TV screen. "Love you!" he tells the screen.

"You had better not," Mycroft teases, Gregory's good mood rubbing off on him. "I might get jealous."

"Well, darling, you'll not lose me for a psychopath, I promise you that." Gregory takes his hand and they crawl from the car together, shielding their eyes to watch their family descend from the plane.

"We must be the only two people on Earth glad for the return of a violent, murderous psychopath with a penchant for bombing."

"Do you think he's really alive?" Greg questions curiously.

Mycroft shrugs. "I don't honestly care if he is or isn't," he answers. "He brought my brother back from the brink of death and for now, that's enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:   
> 1.) I so deeply apologize to all of my lovely readers for letting this go as long as I have without an update!
> 
> 2.) Courting Mycroft is almost over! I hope you all have enjoyed this angst (sorry, again) and be prepared for *drumroll please* a teaser chapter, coming up next, and the third and final story in this series, also complete with more angst.


	27. An Outsider's Perspective, Take Two

I have kept an eye on the Holmes family since we all got back from that disastrous trip to Siberia. The younger Holmes immediately jumped back into his detective solving, no surprise to anyone, and the older Holmes slipped into his snobbish 'I AM the British Government' role. 

The older one still bothers me. It was difficult not to shoot him then, when he was in Siberia and so close to my gun. It would have been quick, which is more merciful than he deserves. But in the time they have been back from Siberia, not much has changed. He is still not mine to kill. He is my mate's. Ultimately, she is the one who will snuff out the flame of the life that is Mycroft Holmes. But I, I will be her weapon.

One of my minions brings the news to me of a Holmes Christmas dinner, and the youngest sneaking off. I laugh bemusedly, it doesn't surprise me that Sherlock would run away. He is bored so easily, and I was often the only thing of interest for him. We were beautiful, him and I, in our immortal tango. He walked away, left the dance, though he doesn't realize that I am waiting to sweep him back into it. I wait in the shadows for him now, but soon I will reemerge. I will take my rightful place alongside him, and bring him to heel. We will rule England together, it will fall before us.

'England, or his older brother?' I muse. 'Either way, it doesn't matter. I will destroy them both alike.'

I am somehow supremely unsurprised to find out that Sherlock has shot my colleague. I must confess I felt a bit of relief, Magnussen had been overstepping his boundaries. I am quite certain I had mentioned that I wanted the elder of the two Holmes boys brought down, but that the younger was to be left alone. If Sherlock hadn't shot him, I would have soon enough.

The death sentence comes as a bit of a shock, mainly because I figured Big Brother, with all of his elective power, would be inclined to save his brother. But I guess I expect too much from a man nicknamed 'The Ice Man' due to his frozen heart and uncaring nature.

I straighten and begin barking out roles to the people around me. They scatter obediently, and I grin. These are the moments I love, when I am in control. If Big Brother cannot save his little brother from harm, then it's up to me. I will not fail him as the older one already has.

It is a simple matter to watch them through the surveillance we have set up the next morning, and to set off the video moments after the plane carrying the youngest Holmes brother and his darling mate lifts off into the sky. I chuckle as I watch various people's reactions to the video of Sherlock's terrible enemy, clearly back from whatever death/holiday he had been on. Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, stops vacuuming her floor with the machine still running, screaming as she nearly dances in place out of fear. Sherlock's friend who used to believe him a psychopath is sitting in a bar. She forgets how to drink her beer as the face plays across the screen, interrupting the match she had been watching.

It is the behavior of the two in the car, however, that interests me the most. I watch the blood drain from the face of the Ice Man's mate. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, my mind identifies him helpfully for me. I will have to get him out of the way for what is coming, though it shouldn't prove too difficult. The poor fool actually believes he has melted the Ice Man, and I fully intend to show him how wrong he is. It would probably be easier to just kill him too, but my children have decided that they need an idol, and apparently the Detective Inspector is a good one. I don't understand it, but I can't argue it. He will live.

The man next to him, watching the video with a look of almost-shock coming across his face, he will die soon. I watch him receive the text on his phone to call his brother back, and he does so obediently.

My attention is drawn from the screen as my mate enters.

"Hello, darling," she greets me, dragging a hand down across my chest as she studies the screen with me. "Did you save him?"

"I did," I confirm, and I feel her answering grin.

"Good. We should celebrate," she tells me.

"Eurus," I purr, still loving the way her name flows off my tongue after all these years.

She grins at me impishly. I inhale the cloying scent of her heat, and feel my Alpha surge to the forefront of my mind. "Come on, darling," she protests, shutting the laptop screen, "forget about my brothers for now," her breath is hot on my ear as she growls, "focus on me instead."

I leap up with a growl, our family forgotten as I turn to deal with my mate. They will always be there when I return, and I owe the oldest of my brother-in-laws retribution for what he's done to my mate.

I will end him, or else my name is not James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Courting Mycroft! Thank you everyone for taking this incredible journey with me!
> 
> In case you were wondering: James Moriarty was the unknown person, the "outsider's perspective" who shot the Siberian man to keep Sherlock and John's kids safe back in chapter fifteen. That's why the title is 'an outsider's perspective, take two.' Bonus points to nightmare_creeper25 for guessing that Moriarty was still alive in my fic verse. And now that we've concluded this, buckle up for part 3 of 'To Court an Omega' which will be titled, as I'm sure you've guessed by the end of this fic, 'Courting Eurus.'


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